


a beer buds series

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Series: a pleasant undoing [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst and Friendship, Lexa & Lincoln are adorable, Lincoln is a sweet angel, Shamelessly Biased Beer Promotion from NE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 10:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25469623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: Set within the 'apu' universe, these vignettes take place throughout the course of the original story, following the timeline of Lexa and Clarke coming to realize their mutual infatuation with each other. Or, the familiar tale of two idiots in love told from Lexa's perspective.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa, Costia/Lexa (The 100), Octavia Blake/Lincoln
Series: a pleasant undoing [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/927642
Comments: 259
Kudos: 447





	1. North Shore: True North (Ipswich, MA)

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: takes place soon after Lexa has moved from NY to MA and prior to her meeting Clarke in chapter 1 of 'a pleasant undoing'
> 
> Beer: North Shore  
> HAZY NEW ENGLAND SESSION IPA
> 
> North Shore Session IPA is brewed with base malts of high character, oats, fruit-forward ale yeast, and American hops. A light, soft, and nutty malt body provides the structure for flavors and aromas of peach, apricot, berries, and melon.
> 
> ABV 4.7%

North Shore: True North ( _Ipswich, MA_ )

“Hey!” Lincoln has the brightest, warmest smile for her when he sees her enter the bar. “How’d it go?”

Lexa slides onto a stool beside one of her oldest friends. “Good.” She exhales, pressing her hands flat against the bartop. “It was good.” 

“Yeah, Indra is good people. It’s a great company to work for.” 

“What are you drinking?” Lexa asks, noticing the half-empty pint in front of Lincoln. 

“This new light beer out of Everett—I think these guys are trying to put Miller Lite out of business.”

“A bold venture,” Lexa smiles. 

“Get whatever you want—drinks are on me.”

“Linc, you really don’t—”

“Nah, forget it. Your sister will beat my ass if I don’t get you at least a little drunk before your first day of work tomorrow.” 

Lexa surrenders with a small, quiet laugh and reaches for the beer menu between them. Her eyes scan up and down the page, glossing over a bit as she deciphers ABV percentages, quirky descriptions of each pour, and unfamiliar cities of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. The reality of accepting a position at Trikru Brewing settles over her. 

“Did you guys get all settled?” Lincoln asks as Lexa peruses the menu.

“Yeah, definitely. The apartment is nice. A little smaller than our place in Fort Greene, but it’s … nice. Costia keeps swearing she’s going to feng shui the living room into looking bigger.” 

“Is she into that kind of stuff?”

“No, not at all.”

Her glib response makes Lincoln laugh, and Lexa smiles in return. 

“Well, that location is great—you’ll love it.” 

Lincoln waits until she’s had her first sip—a New England IPA from a brewery out of Ipswich called True North—before his kind eyes turn soft and searching. 

“So, how are you feeling? Freaking out a little bit?”

“What?” Lexa shakes her head, smiling into the thin layer of froth that tops her beer. “No, I’m good. The interview went really well. And the town is beautiful. I feel good.” Reiteration, she hopes, will be more convincing. 

“You’re definitely freaking out,” Lincoln grins. 

She exhales another laugh. “A little bit.” There’s no use denying her nerves. A long and varied childhood history with Lincoln has taught him all her tells. 

He laughs louder and freer, clapping a warm hand against her back. “You’ll be great. I find that this job rarely feels like work, apart from all the heavy lifting. Anyway, tomorrow is an easy day.”

Lexa looks over at him, hopeful. “Yeah?” 

“Oh yeah.” He gulps down the last of his pint, signalling the bartender for another. “Tomorrow is Dockside Day.” Lincoln’s face has shifted into some sort of amusement. 

_Mischief_ , Lexa thinks. Like he’s telling a joke while leaving out the punchline. 

She is skeptical, if not also intrigued. “What exactly is Dockside Day?” 

The bartender delivers Lincoln’s next beer, blushing at the genuine smile he receives when Lincoln says, “Thanks, Evan.” It’s entertaining to see the far reaching effects of her friend’s charming good looks, and Lexa smiles into another sip of beer. 

“Dockside is great—they’ve got this unbelievable space on the water, _really_ good food and beer, and the women who run it—I mean, I don’t want to give too much away, but you’re gonna like Dockside Days.” 

All Lexa has to hear is Lincoln say _women_ , and she’s rolling her eyes. “A successful, women-run bar in a desirable location. And, which one are you currently trying to sleep with?” 

Lincoln’s laugh fills up the entire bar. 

“I’m going to let you figure that one out for yourself,” he tells her, flashing that same grin that so often got them into trouble as kids. “This is gonna be fun. Having you up here.” 

A deep breath doesn’t necessarily have Lexa convinced, but she does feel a distant sense of security being back in Lincoln’s company. He is familiar and safe. His kind, dark eyes and boyish grin reminds her of countless Brooklyn summers. It’s the first time in weeks that she hasn’t felt entirely reckless. Abandoning her roots in New York has left her feeling directionless, but Lincoln’s perpetual calm puts her at ease. 

Lexa takes another sip of beer. “So Dockside is our first stop tomorrow?” 

“We deliver there midmorning, so more like our second or third stop. I can’t explain it, but you’ll get it once we’re there. It’s great. Octavia is intensely scary but also really likable—that will make more sense once you’ve met her,” Lincoln explains at Lexa’s look of concern. “And, Clarke is just … she’s awesome. I think you’ll get along really well.” 

Sipping again at her beer, Lexa thinks about the notion of building relationships with her clients, let alone finding them _likable_. In taking Indra’s offer at Trikru Brewing, she’d not considered what those relationships might look like. She trusts Lincoln explicitly, but the idea of favoring one client over another, or building a relationship that extends beyond sales and distribution seems unlikely. 

“Should we order some apps? I’m starving.” 

Lincoln’s mention of food distracts Lexa from her spooling thoughts and she nods while shifting in her barstool. She brushes all other pointless musings from her head and offers Lincoln a forced smile that she hopes he overlooks. “Yeah. Sure.” 

:::


	2. Left of the Dial: Notch (Salem, MA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: takes place within chapter 2 of 'a pleasant undoing' after Lincoln's going away party and before Clarke and Lexa take a trip to the cherry farm
> 
> Beer: Left of the Dial  
> SESSION IPA
> 
> Celebrating the modest ABV of British IPAs, yet with the passion and stone fruit aromas of US hop varieties, Left of the Dial uses British malt (Golden Promise, Caramalt, Oat Malt), hard water and a new wave hop profile (Citra, Mosaic). 
> 
> ABV 4.3%

Left of the Dial: Notch ( _Salem, MA_ )

:::

“So, your night ended well on Friday, I’m assuming.”

Lincoln, a man comprising over 200 pounds of tattooed muscle, broad shoulders, and an overactive gym membership, actually blushes. He turns away from Lexa when he smiles so that she can see his remarkable profile as he runs a guilty hand across his short-cropped hair. 

_Too distracted for a fresh shave_ , Lexa grins. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not complaining.” Lincoln stretches his bulky arms above his head and leans back into his chair to stretch his limbs. “It was definitely a fun night, start to finish.” 

Lexa rolls her eyes at his broad smile and fiddles the corner of her drinks menu. Making reference to Lincoln’s party has her thoughts drifting to other smiling faces. Sparkling blue eyes and bright laughter flash across her conscious, and Lexa clears her throat. These images and more have run on a tortuous loop through her head for three, full days as Lexa tries (failing _miserably_ ) to ignore them. 

They’ve met at a quaint beach bar, light purple clapboard siding that is sundrenched and chipping paint. _The_ _Beach Plum_ isn’t beachfront, but sitting on its small patio, Lexa can still smell the nearby ocean. Just one of several enjoyable aspects of her new, coastal life in northern Massachusetts. 

“I’m surprised you even noticed,” Lincoln says offhandedly, chuckling a moment later as Lexa tries to neutralize the panic that must flash across her eyes. “Seemed like you were pretty busy cosying up to your new best friend the entire night.” 

The accelerated heart rate that Lexa actually _feels_ against her breastbone cannot be healthy. She feigns confusion for a half second, enough to calm the racing panic beneath her skin. 

“I met a number of people that night,” she says and fixes her eyes to the menu. 

Laughing again in that carefree fashion, Lincoln snatches the menu from her grasp. Now she’s got nothing with which to distract her hands. 

_Asshole_. 

“I don’t know why you two keep trying to deny it—” 

Panic spikes again, and Lexa grinds her jaw to keep from overreacting. Lincoln cannot realistically hear her thoughts or read her mind. Or, so she repeatedly tells herself. 

“I was totally right,” he continues, almost boasting in his self-assurance. “You and Clarke get along so well already! You guys hung pretty tight the whole night, huh?”

She’s momentarily torn between outright denial and desperate honesty, admitting to an old friend that she was, inexplicably, incapable of prying herself away from Clarke’s company. That she enjoys her animated storytelling as much as her barking laughter. That she cannot figure out if Clarke is constantly flirting with her or if she is simply one of the kindest, most charming people Lexa has ever met. 

Instead, she says, “She talks a lot.” 

“Yeah,” Lincoln laughs again. “Total understatement. She’s been an amazing friend the past few years, though, and she and O go way back. I just _knew_ when she met you, you’d hit it off.” 

_‘You should let me take you fishing sometime.’_

Lexa blinks, swallowing roughly at the memory of Clarke’s words along the waterfront. The way Lexa had absolutely forgotten herself, even for a moment. And then, it had been a forced mantra of: Costia, Costia, Costia. Sweat had gathered in her palms as Clarke watched for her response. 

Three weeks into this new job, this new life, and she’s been swept up by a whirlwind of troublesome exchanges with a really wonderful person she hardly knows. 

Although, that isn’t entirely true. 

Lincoln’s observations, while wildly understated, are accurate. She and Clarke have certainly found a fast bond. It’s been virtually effortless, the speed with which they have begun a friendship. Lexa’s worrisome heart rate and ill-advised desires to constantly be in Clarke’s company notwithstanding, she is grateful for a new friend. 

Clarke Griffin does not hold back, open and authentic in a way that Lexa has rarely experienced, and she finds that sort of reckless abandon to be contagious. She exhales and watches the sun setting along the marsh. 

“It’s—it’s kind of hard not to be friends with her.” Lexa wonders if she’s revealed too much by saying too little. 

“Exactly!” Lincoln laughs. “I think the feeling is definitely mutual. Okay what are we drinking?” 

Lexa is inclined to ask how, exactly, Lincoln knows what Clarke is feeling, or what sorts of things she’s said, specifically, that indicate her mutual interest in Lexa. She wants to probe and prod for every minute detail. 

Instead, she says, “I’ve been wanting to try this one out of Salem.” 

“The session IPA? Hell yeah, Notch is doing a great job there. There’s such an oversaturation of Citra in east coast IPAs, I keep pushing Indra to implement more Centennial hops—really corner that west coast market.” 

With the conversation switching gears to work, Lexa relaxes into the late afternoon sunshine. 

“You had fun then?” Lincoln asks, clarifying a moment later, “At the party?” 

Beers have been ordered, and an appetizer of fried oysters is on the way because Lincoln is perpetually hungry. 

“I had a great time,” Lexa answers. And she means more than the uninterrupted hours she’d greedily spent in Clarke’s company. 

For what little they had talked, Lincoln was right about Octavia. She is instantly likable for someone so unapologetically abrasive. Perhaps Lexa is better equipped to understand Octavia’s sharp edges and acerbic retorts having connected with someone like Anya at such a young age. 

“I’m glad. I owe Clarke big time. She threw a kickass send-off for someone who isn’t even technically leaving.” 

“She really likes you,” Lexa tells him as their beers arrive. “For some reason.” 

The sarcasm breeds more smiles from Lincoln as they enjoy their first sips of beer. “Octavia apparently holds a similar opinion,” Lexa adds. 

Lincoln again runs a palm across the brown skin and dark stubble of his head, smiling as if he’s lassoed the moon. “I’m feeling very lucky, that’s for sure. You know how it is—finding someone who just … makes perfect, fucking sense.” 

“Eloquent,” Lexa grins in response, even as her mind stutters to picture brown eyes instead of blue. 

:::


	3. Whirlpool: Night Shift (Everett, MA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: this takes place during chapter 3 of 'apu' after Clarke has gone running with Lexa but before game night at Lexa + Costia's apartment
> 
> Beer: Whirlpool  
> NEW ENGLAND PALE ALE
> 
> Soft and citrusy, Whirlpool is Night Shift's flagship New England pale ale. Pours hazy blonde with a nose of ripe peach and grapefruit. Sips juicy, fruity, and crisp, with minimal bitterness and big clementine notes. A bright, vibrant beer that’s wonderfully drinkable and remarkably refreshing.
> 
> ABV 4.5%

Whirlpool: Night Shift ( _Everett, MA_ )

:::

Lexa slows at the base of an incline, bracing her weight with her hands on her kneecaps while catching her breath. Lincoln extends his run by a few extra strides, resting his torso against the black metal railing of an overlook that juts above the harbor. They stand just six feet apart, regulating their breathing, while pedestrians, cyclists, and young children in strollers filter past. Although the sun wanes, arching towards the water, its heat has soaked Lexa’s shirt and shorts so that the material sticks to her skin in several places. 

“Bit more intense than your last run?” Lincoln asks when he circles back to stand beside her. 

Lexa stands to her full height, using the bottom of her shirt to wipe sweat from her face. “What do you mean?” 

“Octavia tells me you managed to coerce Clarke into running with you the other day. Somehow I can’t imagine there were any interval sprints in that particular course.” 

That jolt of nerves—of which she is now regretfully quite familiar—at the mention of Clarke has Lexa shrugging off a laugh and heading for the shade of the Memorial Bridge overpass. Her mind betrays her in the worst way as visions of Clarke in running gear, jogging beside her and cracking jokes, resurface yet again. She would kill for some ice cold water. 

Either to drink or dump over her head. 

She walks with her hands folded atop her head, triceps stretching pleasantly as she leans against the bridge piling. The cold stone presses into her skin through the material of her shirt, and Lexa focuses on the sensation. Lincoln follows her with an expectant smile. 

“Clarke can be coerced by nothing, I assure you. She was the one who asked to come with me.” Lexa kicks lightly at Lincoln’s chiseled calf muscle. “Anyway, I sort of lost my running partner when he started getting laid, didn’t I?” 

“Hey, whoa, whoa,” Lincoln laughs, defensively holding up his palms towards Lexa. “You have not _lost_ me.” 

“Well, you’re certainly not as available.” 

“Guilty,” Lincoln shrugs. “But, come on, you know how it is. You _remember_.”

She does remember. Lovedrunk and saturated by lust and desire—that overconsumption of physical touch that leaves no room for anything or anyone else. She remembers those first few reclusive weeks with Costia, both of them cancelling plans and shutting out the world. 

It feels like someone else’s memories. A fading mirage from another life. 

Lexa nods, conceding with a short exhale. “Yeah, sure. Of course.” 

She stands to stretch her limbs and suddenly feels like she could run another ten miles. 

“Let’s grab a beer,” Lincoln suggests, and Lexa is grateful for the change in subject. 

“What—now? Where would we go? I’m disgusting,” she says, plucking her shirt from where it sticks to the skin of her stomach. 

Lincoln bobs his head up the sidewalk, and Lexa’s stomach clenches to see the bright white siding of Dockside. “Octavia’s working. Let’s go bother her.” 

“I need to shower,” Lexa stalls.

“Nah, come on.” Lincoln strongarms her, quite literally, by wrapping his arm around her shoulders and walking farther beneath the shadowed overpass. “The girls won’t care. We’ll sit outside.” 

“Linc, I—" 

“Nope, no arguments. Anyway, it’s Wednesday so Clarke is probably there too. Don’t you want to see your new best friend?” 

_Yes. All of the time. She is both the best and worst thing in my life at the moment. It is exceedingly problematic._

Lexa admits to none of this and instead allows herself to be escorted down the short path towards Dockside’s sunny patio. She angles her head so that she can see Lincoln’s face of self-satisfaction and scowls at his ridiculous smile. 

::: 

“You might not want to hug me, I’m incredibly sweaty right now.”

“Like that’s gonna stop me,” Octavia says, practically jumping into Lincoln’s embrace and landing a soft kiss against his mouth. 

It’s brief and chaste, but Lexa nevertheless averts her eyes and lets her gaze fall across the boats in the harbor. They’ve approached the bar from its rear side, closer to the delivery hatch, crunching through the gravel lot that separates Dockside from the bridge. 

“You guys are staying for a drink, right?” 

Lexa quickly wonders if she can still sneak away for a shower and meet up with Lincoln later now that he’s got Octavia in his arms. “Actually—"

“Oh, no, sorry,” Octavia smirks. “That wasn’t a question. You’re staying.” 

Lexa fully surrenders after that, following Lincoln and Octavia towards the patio entrance with a short laugh. Things could be worse than having friends hellbent on spending time with her.

It is this misguided thought that precedes Lexa’s gaze landing on Clarke through the windows that line the water. 

_Oh no, things are actually the worst they could possibly be._

Clarke in a green, strapless, summery dress. Clarke with her hair twisted at the back of her head in a delicate bun so that Lexa’s vision narrows to the shape of her bare neck and shoulders. Clarke’s bright smile as she spins to collect empty glasses from a table of two college-aged girls. 

Lexa’s smile drains from her face, and when Clarke looks up to see her on the patio, she feels it like a punch to her abdomen. 

She had not been wearing this particularly offensive dress during Trikru’s delivery this morning, and Lexa wonders if she often goes home on her long Wednesdays to freshen up and change clothes between shifts. 

Perhaps she has a favorite customer coming in later whom she wishes to impress. Perhaps Clarke has invited someone to come visit her specifically, to make the gruelling shift more bearable. Perhaps—

“Grab a seat out here.” Octavia’s direction interrupts Lexa’s inconsequential thoughts. 

Perhaps Lexa should stop theorizing about Clarke and her goddamn dress and pull her life together. 

“There’s this obnoxious group of guys at the bar who keep trying to flirt with Clarke about kayaking,” Octavia continues. “I have to go rescue her, but I’ll be back with drinks.” 

She leaves them with a quick brush of her fingers down Lincoln’s chest, and Lexa struggles to push images from her mind of Clarke being hit on as she climbs onto a stool across from Lincoln. The patio hasn’t yet filled with a late afternoon crowd, and she and Lincoln enjoy a minute or two of relative quiet. 

Lincoln hadn’t undersold the location: the views at Dockside are stunning. The harbor is aglow as boats slice its shimmering surface. Lexa allows herself to relax under a setting sun. The sound of gulls in chorus with a quiet, perpetual clanging of cars going over the bridge soothe her previously racing thoughts.

When Octavia returns, it is with glasses of ice water, two, dripping pints of beer, and Clarke at her heels. 

Lexa’s relaxation vanishes in a blink. 

“Night Shift. Whirlpool,” Octavia says by way of explanation of their beverages. 

Greetings overlap as Octavia places coasters and pints on the table, but Clarke’s voice, most prominently, rings in Lexa’s ears. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I didn’t know you guys were coming by today.”

“Yeah, neither did I,” Lexa responds, avoiding Lincoln’s eye as he kicks her running shoe beneath the table. 

She studiously ignores the swoop in her belly when she catches Clarke’s playful gaze instead. 

“You two look properly gross and sweaty,” she comments with that unnecessarily striking smile of hers.

“Pretty sure our run was just a bit more intense than the casual little jaunt you and Lexa did the other day,” Lincoln teases. 

“Hey!” Clarke reaches across Octavia for the sole purpose of pinching Lincoln’s bicep until he squirms. “I was remarkably athletic and agile, thank you very much.”

“Yes, we’re all incredibly proud of your fitness,” Octavia adds, condescendingly patting the top of Clarke’s head. 

Clarke turns to Lexa. “Tell them!”

“Your endurance should be commended,” Lexa tells her entirely straight-faced.

“I hate all of you,” Clarke responds, narrowing her eyes at the three of them. 

Lexa plucks at the strap of her damp tank top and represses a grin. The movement curbs Clarke’s teasing smile when she spies Lexa’s hand. 

“How’s your hand?”

Lexa looks at the bandaging wrapping her right palm, almost as if she had forgotten it was there. 

“Oh. It’s fine. It didn’t bother me at all during the rest of my deliveries. Stings a little now—probably from all of the gross sweat.” 

Clarke rolls her eyes as Lincoln finishes a sip of beer and asks, “What happened?” 

“I caught that sharp edge on the truck latch this morning.”

“Shit, I keep forgetting about having that looked at,” Lincoln says. “Did you let Indra know?” 

“Yes. I had to fill out paperwork for the injury, and she said she’d have the latch replaced.”

“Why don’t you come inside and let me change the bandage.”

Having Clarke’s doting attention when it’s just the two of them is challenging. Withstanding her genuine care and concern in front of their friends is _horrible_. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—it really doesn’t feel that bad, Clarke.” 

“Hey listen, I’m not covering your deliveries tomorrow if that thing gets infected and gangrenous,” Lincoln tells her. 

Lexa shoots him a look across the table for his ludicrous commentary. 

“There’s no sense in you sitting there in pain just because you’re _stubborn_. I have all the supplies inside. Come on, it’ll just take a minute,” Clarke says and then hesitates as if she had briefly considered reaching out for Lexa’s upturned hand. 

Lexa squeezes her fingers into a fist, sending a sharp, stinging pain against her injured palm. It does nothing to lessen the image of Clarke reaching out to her, but it curbs her own reckless impulses to run her fingers along the delicate curve of her shoulder just to see if—

She buries the thought and swallows hard. 

“Okay,” she finally says, sliding from her stool so that she is stood beside Clarke. Eye-to-eye with Clarke’s stunning blue gaze. “Thanks.” 

A tingling suspicion runs up the back of her neck as she trails behind Clarke off the patio. When they enter the cooler, darker interior of Dockside’s main room, Lexa turns to see Lincoln and Octavia huddled together and ignoring them completely. 

Her paranoia—among other things—is really getting out of hand. 

Clarke leads them behind the bar counter and through a swinging door into the kitchen. Lexa has never had such unfettered access to this section of Dockside, and she suddenly feels acutely aware of her damp hair and running clothes underneath the bright fluorescent lighting. Clarke grabs a plate of something from the salad line, says a quick thank you to the woman removing stems from baby spinach leaves, and they exit through another door into a dim hallway. 

“My corner office with a view,” Clarke says upon approaching a heavy-looking wooden door. “Just kidding, there’s no windows in here.” She bangs open the door with her hip and steps inside, waiting for Lexa to follow her. “But, it’s where I keep the first aid kit.”

Lexa steps across the threshold with a timid smile. She’s never been inside Clarke’s office and already it feels like a line she should not have crossed. When Clarke had patched her hand that morning, they had stood in the drafty storage room with its high ceilings and spacious shelving lining the walls. It was a familiar space and vastly different atmosphere. 

This room is cramped and dim. _Intimate_. Lexa feels out of her depth within seconds. 

Clarke sets down her plate of food to fetch the box of medical supplies and is already stood too closely. Lexa thinks she can actually smell her shampoo because Clarke is just that much shorter and her head is angled to focus on removing the old bandaging from Lexa’s hand. 

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Clarke says. 

Her words are felt in short puffs of breath against Lexa’s upturned wrist. Lexa’s other hand fiddles the hem of her running shorts while her breathing shallows and her heart hammers loudly in her ears. 

She hopes the tremors building in her stomach don’t translate to her hands. Particularly while one of them is gently held by Clarke’s careful fingers. 

“Your mom is a doctor so I can trust you know how to properly assess a wound, right?” 

“God no,” Clarke laughs. “She would probably be horrified by my technique. Or lack thereof.” 

“Great. I feel better already.” 

Clarke looks up at her with a smile so utterly devastating, Lexa thinks she should have risked infection instead. “I’m pretty sure you’ll survive.” 

She wishes she had a modicum of chill when it comes to Clarke, but truthfully, she does not. 

Lexa tries to keep her eyes anywhere other than trailing down the slope of Clarke’s shoulder, which is unfairly close and appears soft and smooth under the low light. She skims over the minimal clutter of Clarke’s desk to stop herself from shamefully ogling a close friend doing her a favor. 

There is an assortment of hodgepodge frames that hang on the dark wooden wall behind Clarke’s desk. She sees a picture of Clarke looking much younger with a boy around her age, arms wrapped around each other and stood in front of Dockside. 

She hears herself asking, “Who’s that?” before she can silently advise herself to mind her business and get out of this room as quickly as possible. 

“All set,” Clarke says, and then turns to face the wall behind her desk. “Who’s who?” 

There’s finally some small distance between them, and Lexa breathes out slowly. She looks down to her hand, freshly wrapped in soft white gauze, and flexes it twice into a fist. 

“Thanks.”

Clarke’s voice is as soft as she has ever heard it. “You’re welcome.” 

For a beat, they hold a steady gaze. It passes quickly, but not before Lexa’s pulse accelerates and her palms begin to ache with nerves. She breaks eye contact first, as she often does. She can hear Clarke quietly exhale a second later because the room is remarkably compact, but also because Lexa has started to believe that her body is attuned to Clarke’s the more time they spend in the same place.

 _Or, she’s just being dramatic._

“The, uh, middle frame. The kid hugging you outside of the bar.” 

“Oh! That’s Wells.” Clarke walks towards the frame and plucks it off the wall so that she can examine it more closely. “He’s one of my closest friends and the reason I get to play bar manager at this lovely establishment.” 

That has Lexa’s attention instantly, and she forgets her nerves in favor of learning something new about Clarke. “Oh, really?”

Clarke often does this—unintentionally creating distractions from Lexa’s problematic internal narrative. She drops these little tidbits of information that snare Lexa’s curiosity. Each time, it becomes easier to just relax and enjoy Clarke’s company without overthinking the way the air condenses around them when they are stood too closely. Between that and her penchant for terrible jokes, it explains why Lexa has been able to maintain any semblance of friendship. 

“Yeah, we became friends in high school—we were both into the arts, so total nerds—but he left for San Francisco right after graduation. His dad owned and ran this bar for ages, but when his memory got worse and he had to retire, Wells more or less inherited a business he never wanted to manage.”

“And he asked you to take it over,” Lexa supplies.

“Yeah, he sort of caught me at an opportune time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing with my life.” She replaces the picture to its nail on the wall, crosses her arms over her stomach, and exhales a humorless laugh. 

Lexa raises her eyebrows and nods. “I can relate.” 

“Right.” Clarke’s short laugh is the last lingering sound in the room. 

The moment stretches, Clarke watching her as if trying to solve a riddle. Three rapid knocks at the open doorway interrupt the heavy silence, and Lexa is glad she isn’t forced to be the one to look away this time. 

“Call for you on line one, Clarke.” 

Lexa recognizes Mindy’s voice at her back and watches as Clarke smiles and nods. “Okay thanks, I’ll take it back here.” 

“Okay, boss.” 

Lexa can hear Mindy’s retreating footsteps a moment later and shifts on her feet to prepare her own exit. 

“I should let you—"

“I’m just gonna—"

Words trip over one another until Clarke’s embarrassed smile matches her own. 

“Thanks again for …” Lexa raises her right hand to show its fresh bandaging. 

“Try not to be so clumsy next time, yeah?” Clarke sits at her desk with a smirk and Lexa takes one, measured step backwards. 

“I’ll do my best,” she grins.

She thinks that if Clarke showed up to the delivery hatch wearing that dress next Wednesday, she may very well sever her entire hand from her body from sheer distraction.

“Okay, you should get out of here—Lincoln will think I’ve taken you hostage, and I’m very busy and important taking calls in my fancy office.” 

Lexa laughs in response, backing her way towards the open doorway. If Octavia has stayed to keep Lincoln occupied at their table, there’s no way he’s even registered her prolonged absence.

She mock salutes to Clarke once she is back in the hallway. “I’m leaving, Madame President. Proceed with your executive responsibilities.” 

Lexa exits the darkened hallway to the trailing sounds of Clarke’s laughter. 

:::


	4. Heady Topper: The Alchemist (Stowe, VT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: the opening scene is a rewrite from Lexa's POV of a scene in chapter 4 of 'a pleasant undoing' as Clarke and Lexa discuss an upcoming day on Clarke's boat in a completely platonic, casual and cool manner, completely devoid of any sexual tension ... 
> 
> Beer: Heady Topper  
> DOUBLE IPA (DIPA)
> 
> The Alchemist IPA contains a proprietary blend of six different hops and has an International Bitterness Units (IBU) value over 120, but it doesn't have an excessive, overpowering bitterness. You'll smell or taste hints of spices, pine, grapefruit, orange and tropical fruits. Even though you'll notice a slight note of malt, hops are still the protagonists. 
> 
> ABV 8%

Heady Topper: The Alchemist ( _Stowe, VT_ )

“So, we’re on for Saturday?” 

Lexa slips her hands into the front pockets of her well-worn jeans as Clarke opens the front door at Dockside. She extends her arm, holding it open so that Lexa can walk through. 

The scent of Clarke’s subtle perfume hits Lexa as she passes by, and she exhales in an anxious puff of air. “Yes. What time?”

There’s an unfortunately adorable twist to Clarke’s mouth as Lexa watches her contemplate. “Want to meet at the coffee shop at nine?”

The seaside port to which Lexa is still acclimating hosts several independent coffee shops. To Clarke, there is only one. 

“Sure.”

“Okay, cool.” Lexa has potentially never felt more _un_ cool in her entire life. 

She returns Clarke’s smile, easing her nerves by squeezing her hands into fists within the confines of her pockets. She takes another breath while rising onto the balls of her feet and lowering back down. Lexa finds comfort in the sensation—a habit formed long ago to help calm her during overwhelming situations. She feels grounded by the crunching gravel beneath the soles of her sneakers. 

“So, what should I wear?”

Clarke leans into the door at her back while they are still stood at Dockside’s front entrance under the soft glow of gas lamps above them. “I’ll double-check the weather, but it’s supposed to be warm. Cooler on the water by a few degrees, but you’ll be fine as long as you dress in layers.”

“Layers,” Lexa nods. “I can do that.”

There’s not much else to discuss. They’ve sat and ate, shared harmless barbs at the other’s expense, and told stories of their reckless youth. At this point, Lexa should be saying her brief goodbye and walking away. Except what should be a simple act, has begun to wind its way around her limbs, pinning her to this spot. Her desire to spend time with Clarke is unrelenting.

The notion of parting ways, of spending time away from her bright eyes and warm smile (and even, though Lexa would unequivocally deny it, her terrible jokes), swarms a heavy dread at the pit of her stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll see you Saturday,” she forces herself to say after a rough swallow. 

And Clarke smiles again, as if encouraging Lexa to do the right thing. Whatever the hell that is. “See you then.”

Lexa moves across the gravel lot quickly, putting distance between them at a clip. She heads onto the paved walking path that follows along the harbor, breathes in the sea air, and is swallowed up by a darkening sky. 

:::

“Someone’s in a better mood than when I saw you last.” 

Lexa ambles into the bar with a half smile. She’s only just left Clarke, and there’s a residual adrenaline still prickling her skin. 

“I just ate dinner. Well-prepared food generally puts me in good spirits.” She finds Lincoln at the only pool table near the back. He has ordered for them both, and two pints of light golden beer sit on the table in front of him. 

“Oh, okay,” Lincoln grins, eyeing her strangely. 

Lexa practically hops onto one of the stools at Lincoln’s table and slides a pint closer to her. She’s in a good mood, a little buzzed from the beer she’s already had at dinner, but too proud to let Lincoln feel justified in his assessment of her demeanor. “I wasn’t in a bad mood this morning.” 

Lincoln watches her sceptically, amused. “You looked like you were ready to drop kick someone off a very tall building.” 

During a meeting with Lincoln and Indra at Trikru early that morning, before Lexa’s delivery shift officially started, she had perhaps been less than chipper. She has no interest in currently dissecting the reasons why and shrugs it off. 

“I didn’t sleep very well,” she justifies vaguely. Lincoln looks as if he doesn’t entirely believe her, but she’s enjoyed too good an evening (and one too many beers) to linger on the sour way her day had started. Lexa lifts the pint to her lips before asking, “What are we drinking?”

“It’s a German pilsner. I wasn’t sure how lit you would be leaving Dockside so I ordered lightly.”

For reasons she is not yet ready to admit, Lexa feels entrapped by Lincoln’s assumption. “I’m not—how did you know I was—”

“Octavia told me you’ve been hanging out down there more often, grabbing food and whatnot.” Lincoln shrugs, draining at least a quarter of his own pint. “I made an educated guess.” 

First Clarke had questioned her and now _Octavia_ —who wasn’t even working—has noticed an uptick in her patronage as well. Lexa tries not to feel exposed. 

“I hate cooking for myself.” 

She can hear the vulnerability in her own voice, and she wishes Lincoln weren’t looking at her like that. It’s not pity. He wouldn’t dare pity her. It’s the look of someone who shares an intimate knowledge of Lexa’s life and how much of it she has spent feeling lonely. She wills him not ask any further, urging him to change topics with a kind of hopeful telepathy. 

“Can’t argue with you there. The food down there is addictive,” he finally says. Lexa looks up at him to see his face much lighter, matching his easy tone of voice. She relaxes again and is grateful for Lincoln’s perceptive kindness. Then he winks, and she regrets any platitudes she’s ever bestowed on him. “Company’s not bad either.”

“Don’t start,” she warns, already feeling a jolt of panic at the insinuation. 

Her cheeks flush, remembering the meal she’d shared with Clarke not an hour before—the easy conversation, sidelong glances, and soft smiles. 

“I was talking about my girlfriend. Why?” he smirks, looking all of sixteen and full of mischievous charm. “Who did _you_ think I was talking about?” 

Lexa groans into another sip of her pilsner and jumps off her stool in two quick motions. “Did we come here to play pool or so that you could interrogate me?” 

“Who says we have to choose one or the other?” 

Lexa ignores him and walks towards a rack along the wall where the pool cues are stored. 

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, his voice following her across the small, mostly empty room. “If I win, you have to tell me why you were so angry this morning.” 

When Lexa has selected a cue from the wall, she spins to inspect it for bends and warps, arching an eyebrow challengingly. “How about I annailate you handily and tell you nothing?” 

Lincoln laughs as he stands from his own seat and begins setting up the table by racking the balls. 

“What exactly did they serve you down at Dockside? You’re feistier than normal.”

Lexa pauses, quietly debating whether or not to show her hand before conceding with a grin, “Clarke has that limited-released from The Alchemist on tap.” 

“Oh boy,” Lincoln chuckles, his eyes widening. “That’s kind of a heavy hitter.” 

“I know. I drank two.” 

Lincoln braces himself against the pool table in another burst of laughter, and Lexa resumes her bright and cheerful mood. 

:::

After Lincoln starts their first game and breaks the balls across the table with a loud crack, he misses his second shot and Lexa steps up. Brightly colored balls have scattered across the green tabletop, and she carefully examines her plan of attack. She clears half the table before narrowly missing a long corner, and Lincoln grimaces into the last dregs of his beer. 

“I always forget how good you are at this game.” 

Lexa grins at the reluctant compliment. “You can blame Anya for that.” 

“Oh, I blame Anya for almost everything when it comes to you.” 

Lincoln squares up to the table and Lexa leans against her stool without actually sitting down. Watching him hover over the cue ball, lining up his shot, gives Lexa an idea and she pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans. 

“Did you just take a picture of me?” Lincoln asks after he’s sunk the four ball into a side pocket. 

“Yes. Anya is convinced I have obliterated any chance of a social life by moving into the heart of Red Sox Nation. I’m proving her wrong.” 

“You’ve known me since I was eleven. Does that even count?”

“Semantics,” Lexa responds, eyes trained on her phone and the scathing message she’s composing to her sister. 

“Your social life is fine. Clearly Anya isn’t aware you recently hosted a wildly successful game night.” 

As she waits for the photo to send, Lexa sips at her beer. “She would probably be horrified at the thought of so many new acquaintances in her personal space.” 

“She is suspiciously private,” Lincoln contemplates. “Secret life in espionage?” 

“Entirely possible.” Lexa’s phone buzzes and she looks down anticipating a snarky response from her sister, only to see a message from Clarke instead. 

_Clarke Griffin (9:00pm): just checked again, forecast for Saturday looks perfect_

There are smiley faces and random nautical emojis and bursts of sunshine, and it’s more-or-less everything that Lexa hates about text messages. Except—

“That is _not_ a smile I have ever associated with your sister.”

Lexa nearly drops her phone. 

“Oh, it wasn’t—I was just—" 

“I’m just kidding,” Lincoln grins, clapping a hand to Lexa’s upper arm. “You’re up.” 

Lexa shakes her head, brushing off Lincoln’s curiosity as if her heart hadn’t violently knocked against her sternum. “No, it’s fine. Clarke is taking me fishing on Saturday—she was just texting about the weather.” 

“Ooh, Clarke’s taking you on the boat?” 

Lincoln looks practically giddy as Lexa finishes her beer and pushes away from her stool to examine the pool table. “Yeah.”

“She must really like you.”

Leaning into her shot, Lexa pretends her stomach doesn’t feel hollow. “We’re friends.” She keeps her focus and sinks her final ball seamlessly. 

“Yeah, I know,” Lincoln shrugs with an easy smile. “That’s what I meant.” 

“I’m about to end this game by placing the eight ball in that corner pocket. If that’s okay with you.” 

“Perfect,” Lincoln laughs with a clap. “I’ll get us more beer.” 

:::

“I’m walking with you.” 

“You’re being absurd.”

“I’m _walking_ _with_ you,” Lincoln reiterates while signing for their tab. 

“Lincoln, I can practically see my doorstep from here.” 

“Do I think you’re going to get mugged on State Street at eleven pm? No. Do I think you’re entirely capable of walking 600 yards on your own? Absolutely. Do I worry for your safety anyway because I love you? Fuck yes I do.” 

Lexa’s small chuckle is concession enough, and Lincoln slings an arm around her shoulders as they exit the bar. “You’re an imbecile.” 

She thinks, by the adoring look on Lincoln’s face, that he understands she also means: _I love you, too._

They cross over State Street and turn onto a smaller, darker street with less foot traffic. Not entirely residential but quieter than the city square. Ducking into the alcove of Lexa’s building, she reaches into her pocket for her keys. 

“Tell Costia I said hey … and sorry for getting you drunk,” Lincoln tacks on a second later, and not looking entirely apologetic.

Lexa screws up her face and lightly shoves his broad shoulder. “You didn’t.” She exhales and jingles the small ring of keys in her hand. “Costia is staying in Boston tonight anyway.” 

“Oh.” 

“When she works late and has early classes, her friends from the program let her crash at their apartment in the city. The train can be exhausting.”

Lincoln massages the back of his neck, and Lexa wonders why her pulse has started to thrum. “That’s tough. Are you … okay with that?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Lex—"

“Her friends are impossibly nice people, and Costia is doing what she loves. I’m happy for her.”

The sentiment is not disingenuous; it just says nothing of Lexa or her role in Costia’s new life. 

“Okay,” Lincoln shrugs, his hands deep in his jeans pockets as he gives Lexa an easy smile. “If you ever need to talk about any of it, though.” 

“I know. Thanks, Linc.” 

“All right, get in here.”

Lexa is wrapped up in a smothering hug, bound by Lincoln’s hulking arms before she can react. She exhales against his chest, relaxing into the embrace a moment later. She’s still a bit tipsy, feeling vulnerable from talk of her relationship, and savors the warmth of Lincoln’s arms holding tight. 

“Do you want me to come up? Stay the night for a sleepover?”

“No,” Lexa laughs as they gradually release from the hug. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to crash the second I hit the sheets.”

“Okay good, because Octavia is meeting me at my apartment.” 

Lexa frowns, landing a soft punch to Lincoln’s abdomen. “Get out of here, jackass.” 

Lincoln feigns injury and falls backwards off the steps with a laugh. “Hey, you’re gonna have the best time on the boat on Saturday—send me pictures if you catch anything, okay?” 

“My expectations are relatively low.” 

“It’s not really about the fish anyway. It’ll be great either way. You’re gonna love it. Trust me.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Lexa says, channeling casual indifference instead of the anxious uncertainty she has felt since agreeing to Clarke’s offer. 

As she keys into her building and jogs up the narrow staircase, she lets herself imagine, even briefly, what it might be like if Clarke were there on the couch in soft clothing, waiting for her to come home. 

:::


	5. Sunday Paper: Exhibit A (Framingham, MA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: takes place between chapters 4 and 5 of 'apu' after Clarke attempts to host a dinner party only to have Lexa arrive as her only guest
> 
> Beer: Sunday Paper  
> IMPERIAL STOUT WITH COFFEE
> 
> The smoothness of this beer belies it’s 9.9% ABV. Fresh roasted coffee nose leads into a smooth and rich roasted dark chocolate and coffee flavor with hints of dried black cherries.
> 
> ABV 9.9%

Sunday Paper Imperial Stout: Exhibit A ( _Framingham, MA_ )

:::

Lexa has settled into the worn comfort of Lincoln’s sofa for all of six minutes before a large, curious ball of grey fur is sitting beside her. The cat blinks up at her with its owlish eyes the color of rust, and Lexa smiles while rubbing behind its ears. 

“I still can’t believe you’ve named your cat after my father.” 

“Come on! Tell me she doesn’t look _exactly_ like Gus!” Lincoln shouts from the nearby kitchen. 

The cat begins to purr at Lexa’s doting touch, and she thinks it enhances the resemblance even further. A docile temperament hidden beneath the imposing stature of her father. Uniform grey coloring gives way to a wide swath of darker fur beneath the cat’s chin, cascading down its chest like an unkempt beard. Lexa smiles again. Gus the cat has a bulky frame but is gentle and affectionate. She thinks the comparison is entirely apt. 

“She’s bigger than when I was here last,” Lexa observes as Lincoln enters the room carrying two glasses of dark beer with heavy foam. 

“She eats like a horse,” he laughs, setting a drink in front of Lexa before collapsing onto the other end of his couch. “Plus, I’m fairly certain Octavia is spoiling her with extra treats. Cheers, buddy.” 

Gus abandons her immediately for the comfort of Lincoln’s lap while Lexa retrieves her glass. 

She reaches down the short expanse of sofa cushions to clink her glass against Lincoln’s. “How drunk am I going to be after this one?” 

“Imperial stout. 9.9%,” Lincoln smiles. “But, I’ve got lasagna and garlic bread in the oven to compensate.”

“So I’ll be hungover _and_ doubling my running route tomorrow. Thanks a lot.” 

“What are friends for?” Lincoln beams. “Hey! We should do 1A down to the island and back—weather is supposed to be super mild tomorrow and I’m done with my meetings by 4:00.” 

_The route past Clarke’s house._

The new information of Clarke’s residence is like a hot coal buried deep in Lexa’s stomach. The architecture. The pungent smell of the marshes. Seeing Clarke backdropped by her own surroundings had completed so much of the picture Lexa has been composing for months. Everything about the house, and Clarke in it, made sense—from the colors of her open kitchen to the art hung on the walls to the spiral staircase that Clarke practically forbade Lexa to ascend. 

She swallows, wondering if the blush she feels on her cheeks will show in the low light of Lincoln’s living room. “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

“So, how was it on Tuesday? Sorry we bailed.” 

Not for the first time, Lexa wonders if Lincoln has somehow infiltrated her inner thoughts based on the timeliness of his ask. The inquiry does nothing to lessen her blush, but Lexa hides further embarrassment behind a large sip of stout. 

“You mean showing up for a dinner party to find you’re the only guest in attendance? Not awkward at all, that’s for sure.” 

Gus seems to vacillate between the two of them for a moment, finally curling against Lexa’s leg and pushing her paws into Lexa’s thigh when she sinks her hand into thick, soft fur. The sound of Gus’s purring is amplified by Lincoln’s quiet apartment, and Lexa begins to relax with its perpetual hum. 

“Yeah, but it’s Clarke,” Lincoln laughs. “I’m sure you guys had fun without us anyway.” 

Lexa can’t decide if he’s really so oblivious or playing dumb for her sake, but she looks at him like he’s sprouted a second, immaculately shaved head anyway. She is tempted to recount every movement, and look, and smile, and gesture that she was forced to endure in Clarke’s company that made her feel, in fact, incredibly awkward. And, unsure. Anxious. Elated. Questioning every decision she’d ever made in her life to that point. 

But, sure: _fun_ is more succinct. 

“We had a nice time.” Lexa smiles into her beer, remembering. “I think I talked a lot.” 

“I’m sorry—what?” Lincoln further mocks her by cupping a hand around his ear as if to hear her more clearly. 

“You’re such an ass. Why do I even hang out with you?”

“I’ve been grandfathered in,” Lincoln shrugs. 

“When we were out on the boat, Clarke shared some things with me—personal things—and it felt like it was time to reciprocate.” 

“Her dad?” Lincoln asks in a far more cautious tone. Lexa nods, taking another sip of the dense, dark beer. “The way the girls talk about him, he sounds incredible. A great guy to have lost so soon. O says the Griffins practically raised her. She really loved Jake.” 

“I think Clarke’s connection with him was quite strong.”

Lincoln slowly nods through a heavy sigh. “So, how much of the backlog did you offer up in return? How far back into the Brooklyn archives did chatty Lexa venture?” 

He’s broken the mood, and Lexa gives him a grateful smile. “Quite a bit, actually. I was also sort of high at the time.” Lincoln almost chokes on a sip of beer as Lexa shrugs. “But, I’m glad I told her. It felt good to talk about it.” 

“Yeah.” Lincoln’s dark eyes have taken on a distant quality, and Lexa suspects he may be thinking of Octavia. Perhaps he’s thinking of all the parts of his dark history that he’s been able to share with someone as strong and resilient and unwavering as her. For someone as reticent as Lincoln, it must feel like infinite relief to give that part of himself to someone else. “We beat some shit odds, didn’t we?” he finally says. 

Lexa exhales a humorless laugh. “Understatement.” 

It had been a childhood of survival for them both. Anya too. But then they found each other, and it started to feel less harrowing, less isolating and alone. Even when they lost track of one another—transported from one family to another, in different boroughs, different schools—Anya taught them to rely on a network of trusted contacts. Information from other kids in the system became the string that kept them tied together. 

And then, during that frightening summer when Lexa was thirteen and Anya disappeared, lost to another state—shipped halfway across the country—Lexa wouldn’t let them rest until she and Lincoln found her. It would be another eight months before Anya landed back on New York City asphalt and Lexa could breathe steadily again. 

A timer sounding off in the kitchen breaks the atmosphere again, and Lincoln sets his beer down to briskly stand from the couch. “I’m gonna check on the lasagna. You good on beer?” 

Lexa eyes him, incredulous. “I’ll be drinking this same beer in _an hour_. Quit trying to get me drunk.” Her phone buzzes while Lincoln exits, his laughter trailing after him.

Clarke’s name on her phone screen has Lexa shifting around on the couch, setting down her beer and resting her elbows on her knees. That now familiar coil of excitement swirls in her stomach as she opens the message. 

_Clarke Griffin (6:07PM): new artist featured at the coffee shop has some amazing photography of NY_

_Clarke Griffin (6:07PM): red hook, I think?_

Lexa gives in to the tug at her lips, the way Clarke’s innocuous observation blooms warmth in her chest because of its casual consideration. 

Clarke had been _thinking_ of her. 

She more often tries to suppress the way her mind wants to calculate just how much Clarke thinks of her. But tonight, she allows it. Even a momentary concession has Lexa biting at her lips to keep her smile from spreading. 

_(6:08PM): Clarke, please tell me you are not drinking coffee at six pm._

_Clarke Griffin (6:08PM): Ok. Lexa, I am not drinking coffee at 6pm._

Lexa is readying her next reply, gently chastising Clarke for her irresponsible caffeine intake for what is likely the hundredth time, when Lincoln’s voice announces his return to the room. 

“What’s Costia up to tonight?” 

A lurch in her chest has Lexa nearly dropping her phone onto the floor. Mention of Costia while staring at an innocent message from Clarke is like a head-on collision in her brain. She blinks, closing her phone all together and setting it carefully on the table beside her beer. 

It shouldn’t feel like an irritant, like vinegar in an open wound, but Lincoln asking after Costia grates the skin at the back of her neck. 

Lexa works to remain calm, grinds her jaw, and goes for vague nonchalance. “Boston. Working late.”

“Damn, that sucks. Again?” Lincoln returns to the sofa and stretches his arm along the back cushions. Gus had since wandered off during Lexa’s less-than-scandalous text exchange about photography, but she returns to nuzzle at Lincoln’s calves. 

“Par for the course,” Lexa exhales, willing herself to ease the raised hackles she feels along her spine. 

Lincoln’s tone is sympathetic. “It’s been happening a lot lately, huh?” 

After another sip of beer, Lexa turns into the couch, folding one leg beneath the other. “I’ve lost track, honestly.” 

“We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, but I have a lot of questions.” 

Lexa runs her fingers through her hair and stares at the drink held in her right hand. She doesn’t like to think about all the ins and outs and what-ifs of her current relationship, let alone voice her wandering thoughts aloud. But, Lincoln is a good friend—more than that, he is an integral part of her found family. She finishes the last quarter of her pint in two or three gulps. 

“I’m probably going to require more beer.” 

Lincoln smiles kindly, patting her kneecap before taking the empty glass and standing once again. “More of the same? Or do you want to try something else?” 

Lexa stops herself from asking for an entire bottle of whiskey. “What else do you have?”

“Come have a look,” Lincoln offers. 

She follows him into a petite kitchen, further dwarfed by Lincoln’s immense stature. 

“It smells amazing in here.”

“Should be ready in the next half hour or so,” Lincoln tells her as he swings open the fridge door. There is a low shelf stocked entirely with various cans of beer. “Pick your poison.” 

Lexa squats onto her haunches to examine a few of the labels, in the end deciding on an IPA she remembers seeing on the taps at Dockside. 

“That’s a good one. Octavia is obsessed with it,” Lincoln tells her as he opens his cabinets for a fresh glass and snaps the tab on the beer can for her. He hands over the new glass of beer before rinsing the can and tossing it into a squat recycling bin beside his trash can.

Lexa rests the small of her back against the edge of his kitchen counters and enjoys her first sip while Gus winds around her ankles and flicks her bushy tail. 

“Octavia has good taste.” 

“Tell me something I didn’t already know,” Lincoln smirks. 

Lexa shakes her head in mock astonishment. “Legitimately. Such an ass.” 

His smile transforms to something more genuine as Lincoln props his weight against the counter opposite. “She’s a complete workaholic—never stops thinking about the job, reading up on new techniques, emerging brewers, hop varietals. All of it. The success of that bar is her life. She lives and breathes it, and it shows.” 

“But she—” Lexa adjusts the fit of her plaid button down, swallows her uncertainties with another sip of beer, and forces herself to engage in a conversation she has long since ignored. “You two still spend a lot of time together?” 

“I think the fact that our mutual interests and careers virtually overlap sort of helps. But, yeah, I think regardless of that, we would still make time for each other.” 

Lexa can only nod in response, returning to her beer in lieu of anything profound to say in turn. 

“Are you guys able to spend _any_ time together at this point? Costia’s schedule seems heinous.”

“We are. Here and there,” Lexa shrugs. “We went to see an exhibit at the MFA last weekend, which was nice.” Lexa frowns at the floor. “None of this is her fault. She tries.”

“There’s not always someone at fault when things stop working,” Lincoln says, not unkindly. 

It doesn’t stop Lexa from grinding her jaw on instinct. 

“I moved here for her. If we were to—I don’t even know what I would do if that happened.” 

“Lex, you told me months ago that you were moving here to sort things out—not just with Costia, but with yourself, too.”

Lexa nods again and answers softly. “I know.” 

“Let me ask you this: if Costia’s schedule were different, if she were able to do what she loved in school while also making more time for you and her, would it make you want to hang out any less with, you know, _other_ people?” 

_Not so oblivious then._

He doesn’t have to say her name explicitly—the knowing look they share speaks volumes. Lexa looks away and licks her lips, stalling a response as her pulse quickens. 

“I don’t know if—”

Her half-formed response is interrupted by Lincoln’s phone ringing on the counter beside him. He grins as he picks up the call. 

“Speak of the devil. Hey, Clarke.” 

Lexa sips her beer helplessly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as her mind races. He’s answered the call on speaker, and Lexa braces for the distinct rasp of Clarke’s voice. 

“Hey, it’s me,” Octavia answers, her voice sharp and distinct in it’s own way, and Lexa relaxes by a fraction. 

“Oh! Hey, it’s you. Why are you calling from Clarke’s phone?” 

“I can’t fucking find mine. Have you seen it at yours?” 

“Uh, no,” Lincoln answers, nevertheless casting his eyes around the kitchen surfaces for any sign of it. “I can look around for it though.” 

“We’re actually parked outside—”

 _“Hi, Lincoln!”_

Clarke’s voice pipes through at a distance—as if Octavia hasn’t put the call on speaker but Clarke wanted to be included anyway. Lexa tenses in an instant. 

“—on our way to Abby’s for dinner. Do you mind if I run up for a sec?” 

“No, of course not. Come on up.”

“Are you sure? I’m not trying to interrupt your bro date with Lexa.”

_“Hi, Lexa!”_

“Clarke, is it possible for you to have any chill for longer than ninety seconds?” Octavia snaps. 

A short and hushed squabble ensues over the next several seconds, likely within the confines of Clarke’s car. Lincoln shares a smile with Lexa across the small expanse of his kitchen as her stomach jumps with nervous energy. 

“I’ll be up in a second,” Octavia grumbles. 

She’s at the front door a moment later, and Lexa lingers by the kitchen doorway while Lincoln greets her with a brief kiss. 

“Hey, Lexa.” 

“Hi.” Lexa offers a half wave.

“I’ll be out of here so quickly, I swear.”

“Don’t worry about it. Do you want help looking?”

“Nah, I’m good. Clarke wants to talk to you anyway.”

This jolts Lexa to a standstill where she had begun to move slowly towards the sofa with Gus at her heels. 

“Oh, she—I uh,” Lexa swallows down a fresh set of nerves that Octavia doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Babe, can you check the back deck while I look in your bedroom? I was out there this morning for a little while, and I might have left it on one of the chairs.” 

“Sure,” Lincoln answers, his arm still slung around Octavia’s waist as he leans down to kiss the top of her head. 

They’re both gone from the room in another instant, leaving Lexa standing awkwardly between the front door and the couch where Gus has perched herself atop the back cushions. Lexa hesitates for long seconds, adjusting the rolled sleeves of her shirt while gnawing her lip as the decision to stay or go to Clarke flits irritatingly against her conscience. 

Gus observes her solemnly, and she swears it’s the same look her own father pinned on her during that summer she turned sixteen and formed an unwavering desperation to impress Nathalie Rivera, who Lexa did _not_ , irrefutably, have a crush on. Even going so far as to bribe Lincoln into teaching her the Spanish he’d picked up from his new foster mom. Lexa’s determination to get her attention could not be deterred, but she was not romantically interested in any way, Anya’s accusational taunts be damned. 

“Don’t give me that look,” Lexa tells the cat as she rests her beer on Lincoln’s coffee table, slips into her shoes, and heads for the door. 

She practically sprints (without logical cause) down the flight of interior stairs to the main door, which opens onto a front walk, at the end of which sits Clarke’s silver car. Lexa manages to calm her breathing enough by the time she reaches the driver’s side of the car that she’s not visibly out-of-breath, but her lungs feel constricted nonetheless. 

“Hey!” Clarke beams as she slips from the driver’s seat when she notices Lexa approaching. 

“Hi.” 

Lexa forces her mouth closed to keep from audibly stuttering. Clarke is often dressed at Dockside in an expansive wardrobe that feels like a personal attack on Lexa’s wellbeing. But, something about seeing Clarke in jeans and a warm sweater, looking casually elegant for a dinner with her mother, has Lexa stumbling over basic conversation skills like she hasn’t in years. 

“You’re, um, you guys have—” she clears her throat, completely ineffectually, and Clarke very poorly hides her amusement. 

Why did she think an imperial coffee stout on an empty stomach was a good move?  _ Why? _

“We’re on our way to my mom’s,” Clarke supplies. “Raven just got this major promotion so we’re celebrating by letting her cook us dinner.”

“We’re on our way to my mom’s. Raven just got this major promotion so we’re celebrating by letting her cook us dinner.” 

Lexa places her hands into her front pockets and smiles at Clarke as if her whole body doesn’t feel like a brittle, shaken leaf. 

“You maintain very bizarre friendships.” 

“That’s an interesting take coming from one of my _best_ friends.”

“I didn’t know what I was getting into,” Lexa smirks. “Clearly.” 

Clarke looks away with a laugh and leans against the side of her car to cross her arms along her stomach. The gold of her necklace pendant glints in the streetlamp above them. She nods towards the house at Lexa’s back when her laughter has subsided. 

“Sorry we crashed.” Clarke’s face scrunches prettily with guilt, and Lexa makes the wise decision to avert her eyes with a shrug. 

“It’s totally fine. Unavoidable emergency, right?” 

“Or, they just devised a pathetic excuse to makeout for a few minutes.”

“Right,” Lexa laughs. She cranes her neck to look back at the house. “Maybe I shouldn’t have left them alone.” 

“At this rate, they could be grabbing a quickie.”

It’s now Lexa who is twisting her mouth at Clarke’s overt sexual reference, hiding embarrassment behind disgust. “Clarke, ew.”

It only serves to make Clarke laugh again, and Lexa is forced to look away a second time. 

“So what’s up? Did you need something? Or, did you just _really_ miss me?” 

“What?” Lexa must look horror-stricken because Clarke is sputtering more laughter. “No, I’m just—Octavia said you wanted to see me.” 

_Smooth. Very smooth._

“ _I_ didn’t—” Clarke starts to protest, looking a little unnerved herself before rolling her eyes. “She’s an ass.” 

The familiar insult makes Lexa laugh, and Clarke smiles in kind. “She’s well matched then.” 

“Lincoln? An ass?” Clarke looks scandalized. “No!”

Lexa shakes her head with a long sigh. “You have no idea.” 

A charged moment between them stretches taut, as it so often does, and Lexa is reminded of all the other moments that have preceded it. 

Tuesday night spent salvaging a failed dinner party. 

A blissful day on the water in Clarke’s boat. 

Coffee along the harbor. 

Aimless walks about town. Lingering goodbyes. 

And, countless other instances in which Lexa must fight this same impulse. She’s not at liberty to admit to such wants, let alone act on them, but the thought of kissing Clarke persists behind a veneer of practiced composure. 

Sometimes Lexa thinks that if Clarke were to lean in, make the decision for them both, she would let her. 

Clarke is too good a person to make such advances; even hoping for such an outcome is wildly unfair, and Lexa hates herself a little bit for it. 

She wears a regretful smile that she presumes Clarke has come to recognize—the way it is reflected back to her as Lexa sighs. “So, I guess I’m going to head back up. Lincoln has promised me twice my weight in carbs.”

“Ooh!” Clarke’s eyes light up as they so often do at the mention of food. “What’s on the menu?”

“Lasagna.” The answer comes from over Lexa’s shoulder, and she turns to see Octavia ambling down the front walk with a small plate and a mouthful of pasta. “And, it’s so, fucking good.” 

“Aren’t you two on your way to dinner?”

Octavia shrugs, “Appetizer.”

“I hope you know you’re sharing that with me,” Clarke tells her as Octavia rounds the car and opens the passenger door. 

“You’ll have to pry the fork from my cold, dead fingers.”

Clarke scoffs, opening her own door. “As if cutlery has ever stopped me from stealing food off your plate.” 

“I’ll see you guys later,” Lexa smiles, taking one or two backwards steps towards the house. 

“Later, dude,” Octavia answers before closing herself into the car. 

Clarke smiles warmly, her eyes softening even as Lexa creates more distance between them. “Bye.”

Lexa can feel the warmth of Clarke’s gaze at the base of her stomach, swirling lazily. “Bye.” 

She ascends Lincoln’s stairs briskly, determined to figure out her emotional baggage sooner rather than later and finally get her life together. 

:::


	6. Free Rise: Trillium (Fenway/Boston, MA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: takes place just before Lexa and Clarke get a little too drunk while watching movies (oops!) in which they fall asleep on Clarke's couch together (oops again!), subsequently commencing what I like to call The Separation
> 
> Beer: Free Rise  
> (MOSAIC) DRY-HOPPED SAISON
> 
> This edition of Free Rise highlights locally sourced Danko Rye from Valley Malt and Mosaic in the dry hop. A nuanced fruity hop profile is balanced with subtle, crisp malt character and expressive notes of pepper and clove. Light in body, with a clean, bone-dry finish.
> 
> ABV 7.3%

Free Rise: Trillium Brewing Co ( _Fenway/Boston, MA_ )

:::

“This newer location is great, but you really need to experience their beer garden next summer on the green. Clarke is obsessed with it—chances are she’ll probably drag you there at some point.”

Lincoln says it so casually, and the image that Lexa begins to paint comes effortlessly. 

She and Clarke on a day trip to Boston in mid June, sharing sips of beer and sampling local food trucks in the afternoon sun. Clarke’s rasping laughter drifting through the park as Lexa is further charmed, relaxing in the warm sun and nearby ocean breezes. 

She would allow Clarke to drag her any number of places, Lexa thinks. Given the opportunity. 

“I’m excited to see both locations,” she says to Lincoln, as if her mind hadn’t drifted into an idyllic landscape of some potential future. 

It’s what she’s begun to sense as of late: _possibility_. 

A recent glimmer of hope has been sparking at the periphery of Lexa’s consciousness. There’s the exhilaration of what might be possible for her and Clarke, even in its uncertainty. Even if she doesn’t have any control over it. She can feel the potential of things to come buzzing through her even now, as she and Lincoln walk under the looming, green shadows of Fenway Park. 

“Have you been?” Lincoln asks, nodding towards the infamous baseball park that sits in the heart of the city, surrounded by bars and businesses and gawking tourists. 

“Not yet.”

“We should go—I haven’t had anyone to hate watch the Red Sox with in years.”

Lexa smiles up at him. “A cherished pastime.” 

They swap baseball stats and playoff predictions while walking down the stretch of Brookline Ave between historic Fenway and Trillium. The city air is crisp and cool, and Lexa almost wishes for a jacket, but the chill invigorates her already vibrant mood. Upcoming plans with Clarke have filled her with an unchecked buoyancy. 

Costia had left that morning for her weekend away with a parting kiss to Lexa’s temple, a warm hand cupped around the back of her neck. 

Safe, perfunctory. Everything that Lexa has begun to associate with Costia. 

_“Can we try to talk about this again when I get back?”_

_For once, Lexa hadn’t flinched at the mention of Costia’s research grant and its implications for their relationship. “Sure.”_

_The extent of their goodbye at the door of their apartment had been Costia’s soft look and Lexa’s small smile as she briefly squeezed Costia’s fingers._

There had been a time when impending distance felt torturous—longing would spring up after only hours apart, and Lexa would ache to see her again. 

Those moments for them, like so many others, are gone now. 

And, if they have lost their weight, if they are no more than performative interactions between them, Lexa has begun to wonder: what’s left? 

What is it that has kept her clinging to Costia so willfully? 

Lexa has always excelled at making sense of her life and maintaining control, even amidst the chaos and unpredictability that has so often plagued her. She considers herself a rational person with a reasonable sense of the world, particularly the mechanics of her interpersonal relationships. 

Being with Costia had been no different. From the very start, they just made sense. Lexa has always found comfort in the expected, seeking logic and practicality in her daily life. 

At least, historically. 

Ever since Clarke (clumsily) breezed into her life, Lexa hasn’t felt entirely reasonable about much of anything. Clarke is still unfamiliar in many ways. Her entire friendship has been fortuitous, unprecedented. It’s the first time in Lexa’s entire life that she has been irrevocably drawn towards such palpable uncertainty.

“This weather is perfect—I love it up here at this time of year,” Lincoln says. 

Lexa breathes in deeply, anchoring herself to this moment and quieting the thoughts of her indeterminate future. “It’s great,” she smiles and continues in stride with Lincoln’s comforting shadow cast over her. 

:::

The taproom is stunning: polished wood in every direction, exposed light bulbs hanging from an open ceiling, and thirty-foot glass doors stretching along an entire wall. In the warmer months, Lexa imagines the doors opening to a cluttered patio. In the early autumn temperatures, the patio is empty and half of the room inside is bathed in natural light while the other remains dim and cozy. 

Lincoln heads straight for the bar counter. While a handful of other patrons have favored the couches near the windows, the bar sits empty. 

“Hey guys.” A woman around their age approaches from behind the bar. She slides two menus in front of them as Lexa takes her seat beside Lincoln. “Here’s what we’re currently pouring on tap. Cans are listed at the bottom. You need a minute?”

“That’d be great. Thanks,” Lincoln answers. 

The woman walks away with a smile that Lexa catches only as she looks up from her menu. 

Lincoln drums his hands against the counter top. “Oh shit, I know what I’m getting.” 

“That was quick,” Lexa says, returning her attention to the draft pours. 

“Their gose is ridiculously good.” 

“I think I’m going to do the farmhouse.” 

“Did you two decide?” The bartender is already approaching as Lexa glances up from her menu. “Sorry—I wasn’t trying to hover, but it’s pretty dead in here today.”

“No worries.” Lexa offers a brief smile and watches the woman’s face transform, brightening as she stops directly in front of her and braces her arms against the edge of the counter. 

“I’m gonna do the gose,” Lincoln says.

“And, I’ll do the Free Rise,” Lexa adds. 

“That one is my favorite,” the bartender responds, grinning at Lexa as she retrieves their menus. “Be right back with those for you.”

“Thank you,” Lexa says while reaching for her phone that has buzzed twice from the front pocket of her jeans. 

She’s fighting a grin at the messages she finds, simultaneously typing her response as Clarke continues her barrage of nonsense, and doesn’t catch the odd look Lincoln is giving her until she slides her phone onto the bar top. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” he shrugs, still looking too pleased for Lexa’s comfort. “So, what else are you up to this weekend? You wanna come check out the new poke bowl spot with me and O tomorrow?” 

“I’m supposed to watch movies with Clarke tomorrow night—what time were you thinking of going?” 

“No idea. I’ll let you know though. Or, you know, bring her with you. We can make it a foursome.” 

His suggestion has her ridiculously flustered for what could be no more than an invitation to hang out with three of her friends. But, it’s Lincoln, and Lexa knows better than to underestimate his scheming. 

“Yeah, I mean, I’ll, um, I’ll ask her,” Lexa answers, almost immediately distracted again by the vibration of her phone. 

She’s still rolling her eyes at Clarke’s entirely ridiculous diatribe about the validity of poorly written screenplays of the early 90s when the woman behind the bar returns with their drinks. 

“Here we go. Should I start a tab for you?” 

“Um, sure,” Lincoln responds. He fishes out his debit card from his wallet and slides it across the bar counter. 

“I really love your sweater, by the way.”

There’s a brief, weighted pause following the sound of the woman’s voice, and Lexa looks up from her phone when she realizes the compliment was meant for her. 

“Oh. Thanks.” She flashes another momentary smile before reaching for her beer and sending off her scathing rebuke for Clarke’s lack of cinematic prowess. 

The absolute ire that it will produce and the irritated messages that will follow almost make Lexa giggle in public. Pushing Clarke’s buttons has become an accidentally honed skill. 

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not the same person who told me—not two weeks ago—that having beautiful women flirting with you typically grabs your attention?” 

Lexa closes her phone instantly, replacing it to her jeans pocket where she hopes it will be safe from Lincoln’s insightful observations. Like getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she attempts to clear her face of any guilt as she looks over at Lincoln because Clarke had not been _flirting_ with her in the first place. They have merely been discussing preferences in film through a medium of quick wit and lightly antagonistic banter. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Lincoln’s voice drops to an even lower volume as he leans towards her. “That bartender has been chatting you up since we walked in, and you seem to be on another planet right now.” 

“She was not—”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Lincoln laughs. “Believe me. She definitely was.” 

Lexa chances a quick glance down the length of the bar towards the woman polishing glassware. She looks up before Lexa can avert her gaze, and that same smile is back. Lexa’s stomach drops regretfully. 

She hadn’t registered the blatant interest from their bartender nor her physical features, which are, objectionably, quite attractive. 

_Damn it, Lincoln._

“How is it?” the woman calls out, and Lexa raises her glass with a forced smile.

She takes a sip, pretending it isn’t her first, and can actually feel Lincoln fighting a smile to her left. “It’s great. Thanks.” 

“Maybe having _multiple_ beautiful woman flirting with you simultaneously is throwing you off,” Lincoln stage whispers, gleefully watching Lexa’s discomfort until she kicks his leg with the toe of her sneaker. 

“I’m ignoring you now.”

“Oh good,” Lincoln laughs, “this should be a fun hang then.” 

Lexa’s phone continues to alert her of Clarke’s persistence, or so she assumes by the rapidity at which it vibrates. Clarke never sends one, moderate length text when she could send 12 fragmented messages in quick succession. She reaches into her pocket to silence her notifications when Lincoln gently pokes a finger into her tricep. 

“I’m just giving you a hard time. You know I don’t give a shit if you text Clarke while we hang out. She’s my buddy.” 

“Why are you assuming I was texting with Clarke?” Lexa can hear the edge to her voice and reaches for a drink of her saison to lessen her defenses. 

“Wild guess.” 

Even Lexa is relatively powerless to Lincoln’s smirking charm and fights a smile of her own when their eyes meet. 

“We’re debating movie selections for tomorrow,” she shares. “Her taste in film is generally abhorrent.” 

“You two are always fighting about something.” 

“Not intentionally. But, Clarke can be very … _frustrating_ ,” Lexa admits with a soft scowl into her beer. Lincoln laughs in response and she exhales. “We’re extremely different people.” 

“Yeah, but differences are good. At least she keeps things interesting.”

Lexa barely manages not to choke on her beer, swallowing inelegantly. “That is one way to put it.” 

“So, Costia is gone until Monday?”

Lexa tries not to let the abrupt change in conversation jar her. “Yeah.”

“Where’s the conference again?”

“D.C.” Lexa clears her throat, tracing a ring of condensation with her index finger against the bar. “Johns Hopkins.” 

“How have things been? Any better?” 

“Define _better_.” 

Lincoln grimaces sympathetically at Lexa’s unmasked cynicism, and she exhales a cleansing breath. She’s determined not to make this yet another installment of airing her grievances of a stalled relationship, like so many times before. Lincoln is too kind and too selfless—she doesn’t want to take advantage of his friendship by making everything about herself all the time. 

“Sorry,” she says softly. “I guess I don’t know how to determine if things are improving or not. But, we’re trying to be more realistic about our relationship at the very least. Talking a bit more. She’s been pursuing this research grant, which would mean almost a full year apart as she works abroad.”

“Damn.” 

“I know. I took the news spectacularly well, as you might imagine.” 

“Lost your shit a little bit?”

Lexa huffs a laugh and pulls on the sleeve of her sweater. “I think you accused me of being particularly homicidal that morning?”

Lincoln tips back in his stool with a laugh. “Ah, yes—I _knew_ it.” 

“Thank you for gloating at my expense,” Lexa responds drolly. 

“Sorry.” Lincoln clears the laughter from his voice and attempts composure. “So, what’s the plan? Wait and see if her proposal is accepted?” 

Lexa swallows down a mouthful of beer and runs a hand through her hair. “I think we have plenty to talk about even if she doesn’t get the grant, but yeah. We’re supposed to talk when she gets back.” 

“That’s really good, Lex.” Lincoln’s gentle timbre is warm and reassuring, all prodding humor gone from his tone. “I mean, it’s tough, but avoidance is also generally unhelpful.” 

“Yes, I’ve realized.” Lexa smiles over at him, feeling better already. 

Lincoln then asks, “What about Clarke?” and her momentary sense of relief vanishes. 

She’s either gone extremely pale or is blushing fiercely because she feels both an icy chill and too hot all at once. She barely manages to respond without her voice shaking awkwardly. “What about Clarke?” 

Lincoln is unfazed, lightly flicking his finger against her forehead as if they’re still thirteen and riding a noisy subway car. “She’s supposed to be your best friend, dummy. You should talk to her about this stuff.” 

She’s never considered mentioning anything of significance about Costia to Clarke. It’s always seemed to Lexa, unsurprisingly, like a conflict of interest. Clarke will often inquire about Costia’s schooling, graciously concerned for her well-being within a demanding graduate program. In turn, Lexa offers her standard replies, never wanting to delve too far into their dynamic for fear it would reveal too much and ruin everything. Her life for the past several months has relied entirely on a delicate balance. Saying too much too soon could be perilous. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” 

“Hey guys, are we ready for another round?” 

The unexpected sound of the bartender’s voice startles Lexa out of her thoughts, and she looks up to see that her beer is, in fact, empty. 

“I’d like to try what he was drinking, actually,” Lexa tells her. 

“You know what? I’m going to do the farmhouse,” Lincoln announces and slides their glasses closer to the woman standing in front of them. 

She laughs easily while reaching for their empty glassware. It’s a nice laugh, ringing pleasantly in the quiet taproom. Even still, Lexa can’t help but register how much it pales in comparison to the addicting notes of Clarke’s distinctive laughter. 

“Okay so two more of the same but in reverse,” the woman confirms. “Got it.” 

As she leaves them, Lexa spins in her stool, determined to shift gears away from her indecisiveness. “Things with you and Octavia are going well?” 

“Yeah,” Lincoln smiles. “Really great. She’s probably way too good for me, but I’m going to keep my mouth shut and hope she never figures it out.” 

Lexa arches an eyebrow. “Do we need to sort through _your_ abandonment trauma now? Because I thought we promised each other years ago that we would stop belittling our own self-worth.”

“No, no,” Lincoln laughs. “I’m good, I swear.” He shrugs a moment later and scratches his head. “Old habits.” 

“There is no one too good for you, but if there were ever a perfect match out there, it’s Octavia.” 

The bartender returns with their drinks before Lincoln can respond, but he looks at her as if Lexa has just gifted him the cosmos and reaches out to squeeze her shoulder. Their next beer turns to idle chatter, old memories, sports, and shop talk. Lexa checks her messages while Lincoln is in the bathroom and finds that Clarke has not conceded any of her poorly formed arguments by even a fraction. The fiery retorts on her screen breed a smile so wide that she doesn’t manage to temper it by the time Lincoln returns. 

If she were at liberty to be more honest, she would tell Clarke that it doesn’t matter what movies they watch. She’s just happy to be spending more time together. Instead, she slides her phone back into her pocket and stands beside her stool, stretching the stiff muscles of her back. 

“You ready to go?” 

Lexa smiles in response and nods. 

They thank their bartender and exit the taproom into a setting sun. The foot traffic down Brookline Avenue is busier at the 5:00 hour as city workers rush towards their staggering commutes home. Lexa is lost in thought, still pondering her evening with Clarke the following day, when Lincoln abruptly pulls her down a side street with his hand wrapped around her elbow. 

“Oh wait—this way.”

“Um, where the hell are we going?” Lexa asks when their course has been rerouted away from Lincoln’s car. 

“I just decided I’m gonna take you for the best burger of your life. Storrow Drive is a parking lot right now anyway—it could take us hours to get home if we leave now. Let’s eat first and then drive back.” 

In no rush to return to her empty apartment, Lexa shrugs easily. “Yeah, sure.” Being in Lincoln’s company is almost always preferable to anything else anyway. 

After a moment’s pause, he nudges her with his elbow as they walk and is grinning stupidly when Lexa looks up at him. “If you _really_ want to make Clarke mad, tell her we’re about to walk into Tasty Burger.” 

Lexa has spent the better part of the year feeling unmoored by a lack of purpose. She has been draped in uncertainty and self-doubt after abandoning her life in New York. And while she still feels plagued by indecision, she’s also grateful for the choices she’s made that have brought her here, walking in stride with an old friend. 

She returns Lincoln’s smile and reaches for her phone. 

::: 


	7. skip the beer, pour the whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: The Separation -- this falls within the span of time during which Clarke and Lexa were not speaking as they dealt with the fallout of having crossed a major boundary in their friendship (chapter 5 of 'apu'). Lexa has the sads and Lincoln, as always, is lovely.
> 
> Beer: glass of bourbon on the rocks :)

Lexa is awash in contradictions. 

She tends to find indecisiveness in others frustrating; recognizing the trait in herself is _intolerable_. 

She has suffered this recent truth about herself for months—feeling inept at choosing a path and toeing a line between a dual existence. 

Loyalty. Truth. Stay. Leave. _Costia. Clarke._

In the absence of Clarke, she is further paralyzed. Lexa has spent the better part of November wallowing in the consequences of her inaction. Obstinate loyalty has caused her to lose Clarke, leaving her tethered to Costia by her own hand. 

In a cruel twist, Costia spends more time at home, worrying over Lexa’s wellbeing while her students prepare for their finals during the early weeks of December. The extra care and concern, brief hugs and soft looks, only makes Lexa feel worse. 

She’s agreed to Lincoln cooking her another meal, in a moment of weakness, and each step she takes towards his apartment is heavy with regret. She doesn’t wish to see friendly, familiar faces. She doesn’t deserve their kindness. Not even the prospect of time spent in Lincoln’s company has sounded appealing in the last month. Lexa has been hermitting away for weeks—mourning the loss of Clarke’s friendship and throwing herself a spectacular pity party. 

At first, it was merely Clarke’s shift in tone. She had turned stringent, detached, employing the professional air of a work colleague. Her responses to Lexa’s texts lost all their effusive flair, cooling by degrees until they ended entirely. The message was clear: Lexa had said too much, showed her hand, and scared Clarke away. 

“Hey.” Lincoln answers the door with a meager smile. Not the bright beam of light that he so often wears in Lexa’s presence but something kind and cautious. 

“Hi.”

They engage in a brief, one-arm hug as Lexa crosses the threshold into Lincoln’s warm and fragrant apartment. She holds a peppermint tea in one hand, having stopped for something to keep her warm on her walk. She’s started frequenting a coffee shop closer to her apartment, not purely for convenience but by intention. Avoiding the more familiar shop by the water feels like adhering to some silent set of boundaries that Clarke has put in place. 

“It smells good in here,” she tells Lincoln while slipping out of her shoes by the door and setting down her tea to remove her coat and hat. 

“Pot roast and potatoes.” 

_Comfort food._

Lexa finds her smile for the first time in weeks, and Lincoln squeezes a hand to her shoulder before returning to his kitchen. She follows behind with her tea, running her fingers through the curls that have been flattened beneath her winter hat. 

When Lexa was newly fostered by Gustus, he’d attempted a welcoming, home-cooked meal. The pot roast was tough and sinewy, the potatoes undercooked and flavorless. Lexa had never felt so utterly cared for, filling her plate no less than three times. Over the years, she, Anya, and Gus—Lincoln too, for how often he would find himself at their kitchen table—worked to improve the recipe together. They studied spice blends, cuts of meat, and countless cooking videos. Even their perpetual culinary failures were communal, familial. Eventually, it evolved into a cherished family favorite that Lexa directly associates with the comfort and safety of home. It remains the one meal her father is capable of preparing with relative success to this day. 

“Thanks for cooking.” 

“I’m glad you came over,” Lincoln smiles at her from the stove. He doesn’t say _finally_ , though she feels the implication. 

Lincoln has continuously attempted to see her, despite Lexa’s refusal to socialize. Passing conversations at work and random text messages have been their only contact for almost a month, but Lincoln never stopped reaching out to her. She wonders if anything might have gone differently had she not eventually given up on repairing things with Clarke. 

When days without contact turned into weeks, Lexa panicked. As the weeks stacked into a month, she lost all hope for restoring her friendship with Clarke. 

_It’s the space she wants_ , Lexa keeps telling herself. Further engagement would only push Clarke farther away. 

“Can I get you a drink?” Lincoln is already drinking something from a beer glass but opens the fridge as he sips. “Octavia just restocked me with a bunch of shit I haven’t tried yet.” 

“Uh, sure. Just … surprise me,” Lexa shrugs. 

Incapable of making decisions. Even for the sake of alcohol. Lexa grinds her jaw at her own vacillating shortcomings: _infuriating_. 

“You got it.” Lincoln works on making his selection while Lexa finishes sipping her tea, hoping it will calm her, and deposits her paper cup into the trash bin when she’s through. 

“Actually, do you have any whiskey?” 

Lincoln is chuckling as he abandons the fridge, leading them out of the kitchen. “Say no more.” 

He stops beside a fully stocked drinks cart—mid century design of stained walnut with dull, brassy rails and casters. Lexa recognizes it immediately. “Is this the same cart from your moms’ house?” She runs a finger along one of the slender rails while examining its well-preserved design. 

“Yep. The _one thing_ I was allowed to take with me when I moved up here,” Lincoln grins proudly. 

Lexa can feel the ghost of another smile. “I’m surprised Alice allowed it.” 

“She practically wept when we loaded it onto the moving truck, but you know Rosa has a hard time saying no to her mijo.” His beaming smile returns, dimples and all, and Lexa rolls her eyes. 

“It is an exceptional piece of furniture.”

“I swore to care for it like a firstborn child.”

Lexa smiles again, examining the bottles of liquor. “They’re still in New York?” 

“Oh, moms are _never_ leaving Carol Gardens, you know that. I think that house belonged to Alice’s great grandmother or something.” 

Lexa lapses into fond memories of Lincoln’s childhood home—a stark difference from the foster families and group homes he’d previously survived in his younger years. Rosa and Alice were generous, kind, and gracious caretakers from the start. Eager to become parents and intent on making Lincoln feel safe and supported, they never gave up in spite of his ingrained mistrust. Their unconditional love and acceptance had been so unexpected and surreal, Lincoln spent the first six months of his stay with them waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“That party you threw over winter break freshman year.” Lexa smiles fondly at the recollection. 

“Oh my god, I was grounded for an _eternity_.”

“Anya and I were afraid to show our faces for weeks after that.” 

Lincoln tsks her recollection and rolls his eyes. “As if you two could ever do wrong in their eyes.” 

“Did you go back for Thanksgiving?”

Lincoln uncharacteristically balks, his gaze falling to the collection of liquor bottles that sit on the drinks cart. “Uh, no. I’m taking O to New York for a few days after Christmas so she can meet Alice and Rosa, but we, uh, we went to—Octavia never really spends holidays with her family because she prefers the Griffins, you know, and we usually all just go to, uh—” 

He can’t even bring himself to utter her name, and it still feels like a punch to Lexa’s sternum. 

“You can say her name,” Lexa tries for nonchalance, shoving her hands into her jeans pockets and smiling unsurely as she furthers the lie: “I’m not going to break apart or anything.” 

“Right.” Lincoln clears his throat. “Anyway, Clarke hosts this little friends’ gathering every year at her place. You know how she likes to cook.” 

“Right.” Lexa nods swiftly, trying desperately not to think about all of the other wonderful things about Clarke that make her disproportionately likable, not least of all her passion for food. 

“How was your holiday? You were with Costia’s aunt?” 

“Yes.” Her entire body feels rigid; a forced exhale does little to ease the tension. “It was … nice. Her aunt and uncle are great people.”

“Well, we missed you.” He offers hopefulness that Lexa doesn’t dare cling to. “Next year.” 

She swallows roughly, unable to conjure a valid response, and hoists a bottle from the top tray of Lincoln’s cart. “I’ll try this one.” 

Lincoln’s guarded smile is back, and Lexa wishes she weren’t the cause of it. “Let me get you some ice.” He reaches to a lower shelf for a glass. “Unless you want it neat?”

“No, I’ll take some ice. Thank you.” 

Lincoln leaves her for the kitchen just as Gus emerges from the bedroom with a yawning stroll towards the couch. She is a giant ball of elegant, grey fur. Lexa follows her movements and plops onto a sofa cushion just as Gus leaps gracefully atop the armrest opposite. 

“Are you keeping your distance now too?” 

Gus watches her for a moment, calculating. It takes only the extension of her hand across the cushion for the cat to approach, nudging her nose into Lexa’s palm a moment later. She feels settled by Gus’s presence instantly. By the time Lincoln returns with her drink, she’s been lulled by loud purring and the downy fur between her fingers. 

:::

Dinner is exceptionally prepared, and Lexa feels infinitely better with a full stomach. She and Lincoln talk of New York, and family, and the changing seasons. He’s being careful with her still, avoidant out of kindness and caution, but she knows there are things he wants to say. 

On the couch after dinner, with Gus in her lap and a second whiskey sitting on the table beside her, Lexa _finally_ makes a decision. She tells Lincoln the truth. 

“I think I scared her off.”

Lincoln practically jolts at his end of the sofa when he realizes what subject Lexa is broaching. He has switched to whiskey as well— _in solidarity_ , he’d said—and the two of them sip quietly for a few moments while Lincoln processes the new information. Lexa tries not to feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Clarke?” His face creases in thought a moment later when Lexa nods. “That girl does not frighten easily—what makes you think you scared her off?” 

“I talked to her about Costia.”

Lincoln’s dark eyes widen by a fraction. “What did you tell her?” 

“How we almost broke up in New York. The disconnect I’ve been experiencing since moving up here.” Lexa exhales, feeling a rush at finally airing her admissions. “We were a little drunk.” 

“Okay,” Lincoln smiles. “Still, I don’t think that would—”

“And then I sort of fell asleep on her couch … _with_ her.” 

She looks up from her lap to see the blatant shock in Lincoln’s gaping jaw and wide eyes. His expression would be priceless and more than a little humorous if she weren’t so anxious and full of regret over her actions. 

“Okay, _that_ might sufficiently freak her out.” 

“I know.” Lexa covers her face with both hands, and Lincoln instantly backpedals his reaction. 

“No, no wait. Lex, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you did anything wrong.” 

“I did. I messed up everything. I haven’t dealt with anything that’s going on with Costia, and Clarke is dating now—” 

“Hey.” Lincoln wraps a hand around one of her ankles where her legs are stretched along the length of the couch, and only then does she pull her hands from her face to look at him. “Listen to me: you did not do anything wrong. I’ve crashed at friends’ houses hundreds of times, so unless you’re telling me that you fell asleep naked …” 

Just the sound of that image has Lexa’s stomach bottoming out as she buries her face into the crook of an elbow. “Linc, oh my god. _No_.” 

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, too proud of himself for having embarrassed her. “In that case, you really haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just—this is _Clarke_.”

Her eyes drift back to the cat asleep in her lap, and Lexa’s voice softens. “I know.” 

“Do you?” Lincoln urges.

Lexa looks up. “I’m not a complete idiot.” 

He smiles at her like an older brother might tease his distraught, younger sibling in the middle of an existential crisis. “Just checking.” 

“The sleeping part was completely accidental,” Lexa grumbles, her face still cooling from the heated shame of imagining Lincoln’s inquiry while reaching for her drink. 

Lincoln shrugs. “Hey, it happens.”

“Not with Clarke it doesn’t.” 

“Yeah, I guess not.” Lincoln considers her for another moment, sipping at his drink while Lexa fidgets with a seam on her shirt. “What did Costia say when you told her about staying over at Clarke’s?” 

“She was glad I was safe—that I didn’t try to walk home or anything.” Lexa exhales and watches for Lincoln’s reaction. “Why?” 

“I just think her response is indicative of your relationship. On the one hand, there’s obviously trust there. She’s worried more about your safety than the threat of you sleeping on another woman’s couch.” Lexa can feel her cheeks warm again and takes a sip of her whiskey. “On the other hand,” Lincoln pauses, waiting to catch Lexa’s eye. “Costia’s not an idiot either.” 

_There it is._

The truth (or at least an insinuation of it) that they have been dancing around for months. Lincoln’s gaze is not unkind but unrelenting in forcing her to confront her own culpability. 

“I know.” Lexa thinks her voice has never sounded so small. 

“You guys ever have that talk after DC?” 

“No.”

Their intentions had been good. But in the end, they had been hindered by Costia’s schedule going into finals and Lexa taking on new responsibilities through Trikru. By the time they caught up with each other again, Clarke was gone and Lexa couldn’t see anything beyond the shape of her absence. 

“I don’t even know if it’s worth it at this point,” she continues. “Who’s to say the same results wouldn’t keep happening again in relationships with other people?” Lexa bites at her lip, deepening the furrow in her brow. “What if the real problem is just me?” 

“Hey, don’t say that shit about one of my best friends.”

Lexa finally makes eye contact to see Lincoln’s warm gaze looking back at her. Reassurance floods in even amidst all her surging self doubt. 

“Deciding to be with someone shouldn’t be about calculated risk.” He rubs a hand across his abdomen, smiling fondly in contemplation. “You either feel it, or you don’t.” 

“Feelings continuously shift and change—they’re an unreliable barometer.” 

“Not always,” Lincoln challenges. “Sometimes you get that kick behind your ribs while in someone’s presence. Or, you feel that persistent pressure against your back, pushing you towards someone—you have to give those feelings some weight if it’s more than a fleeting impulse.” 

She’s had similar debates with herself a million times, always ending up at the same conclusion. “I had all of those same feelings with Costia. And, look what’s happened to us.”

He tips his glass in Lexa’s direction. “Okay, sure. And, if those feelings have faded, doesn’t that warrant some consideration too?” 

“I don’t … I don’t trust myself to make the right decision.” 

It might be the most honest admission she’s had in months. She’s relieved that Lincoln is her confidante when the truth slips out and the reassurance of his soft smile returns. 

“You’re always too hard on yourself, Lex. It doesn’t have to be so complicated.”

Lexa responds only by glaring at him spectacularly over the rim of her glass. Teaching herself molecular physics might be less daunting than solving her current relationship dilemma. 

“I’m serious!” He defends himself through a laugh. “Okay. For me, it’s just about wanting to spend time with that _one person_ more than anyone else. It’s not always fireworks or these massive heart palpitations, sometimes it’s just preference. Like, I prefer this one person’s company over everyone else, regardless of how long the relationship lasts.” 

Lexa arches an eyebrow. “So it doesn’t matter if you and Octavia don’t last?”

“Oh no, she’s stuck with my ass forever.”

Lexa’s laughter dislodges some of the unease tightening in her chest. 

“Honestly though,” Lincoln continues, “if O eventually met someone and felt that same draw that I feel towards her, or struck some connection that she believed would make her happier than I could … I would want her to explore that.”

Lexa watches her friend and resumes stroking her hand atop Gus’s head. “You’re an unbelievably good person, do you know that?” 

“You are too, buddy. Don’t convince yourself otherwise.” 

“Thanks,” Lexa responds softly. 

“And, maybe Clarke is sorting through some stuff or taking space to figure out her own shit, but she’s not gone forever, okay? She’ll be back.” 

Lexa releases a heavy sigh, wishing she shared Lincoln’s optimism. 

In a week, she’ll leave for her holiday in New York. She’ll have the comfort of her father—his monstrous hugs, booming laughter, and mediocre cooking. And, she’ll face Anya, a far more imposing audience than Lincoln or Gus, in the midst of this internalized, romantic crisis. She’s exhausted by her own ambivalence and wishes someone in her life could just give her the right answers. 

She wants shared laughter on the warm sand of a deserted beach. 

She wants to place a coffee order for someone else and know it by heart. 

She wants petty arguments about meaningless things that dissolve into long hugs and gentle apologies. 

She wants extravagant brunches and lazy Sunday mornings, shared smiles in crowded rooms and soft touches that speak volumes. 

Her desires are not uncommon. She could likely have these experiences with any number of women. Lexa reconsiders the simplicity of Lincoln’s perspective and dares to hope that a solution to her indecision could be so cut and dry. Because if the answer is preference, her solution is simple. 

She doesn’t want these experiences with just anyone. More than anything, she wants them with Clarke. 

  
:::


	8. Frequency: Winter Hill Brewing (Somerville, MA)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: just after Lexa returns from her holidays in New York, Clarke is bombarded with work at Dockside; Lincoln keeps her company over the weekend as Lexa relays the events of her Friday spent with Clarke (chapter 7 of 'apu')
> 
> Beer: Frequency  
> KÖLSCH-INSPIRED GERMAN ALE
> 
> Clean and bright. Pleasingly malty with a touch of noble hop. Crisp and sharp with a subtle malt sweetness on the finish
> 
> ABV 5.0%

Frequency: Winter Hill Brewing ( _Somerville, MA_ )

:::

Lexa cannot stop smiling. 

She hasn’t been able to curb the small grins and outright smiles that keep spreading across her lips at random intervals since leaving Clarke’s house on Friday morning. 

She doesn’t stop them when her thoughts drift to the sound of Clarke’s voice and the looks they shared in her kitchen over coffee and bagels. And, she can’t keep her lips from curving when remembering their dinner Friday night, the way Clarke’s eyes would gleam and her cheeks would blush when Lexa would say something purposefully flirtatious. She has more-or-less lost all power over the muscles in her face and the control Clarke has on her overall good mood. 

She hasn’t allowed herself this much visible happiness in ages. It feels both incredibly unnatural and like enormous relief. 

And, because she is smiling into her phone while reading a recent text from Clarke, riddled with profanity about being stuck at work, she doesn’t notice Lincoln approaching. 

“Hey, I’ve missed that smile.” 

Lexa’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and her smile remains. She’s missed him too. 

“Hey.” 

They clumsily exchange a hug while Lexa is sat on a wicker bar stool and Lincoln stands beside her at a bright grey bar counter made from swirled marble. The sun streams through the front windows of an upscale restaurant known for their brunch menu, woodfired pizzas, and signature cocktails. 

Lexa had, in fact, intended to ask Clarke to brunch at this very establishment. She has been eager to resume their mutual exploration of the attraction that’s been brimming between them since early June. Friday had been a glimpse, a negligible fraction of what Lexa knows they are bound to discover over time. She thinks of her fingers tangling between Clarke’s or the physical distances between them that are gradually vanishing. Her head buzzes with all their potential in the days and weeks to come. 

Lincoln unbundles from his wool peacoat and unwinds a striped scarf from around his neck to reveal his thick cable knit sweater beneath. “I just saw the girls,” he announces. 

Lexa swallows, torn abruptly from the places her mind had been wandering. “Did you?” 

“Yeah, they’re slammed down there.” Lincoln takes his seat and then angles himself comically in Lexa’s direction as if he plans to interrogate her. “ _So_ , Clarke says hi.” 

Lexa’s chest balloons and her smile expands beyond her control. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.” 

“I assume this means you two are on speaking terms again?” 

The burn in Lexa’s cheeks is so severe, she’s forced to look away to the sounds of Lincoln’s delighted laughter. He playfully jabs a finger into her bicep while she fails miserably to keep her cool. 

“We started talking before I left for New York.” Lexa clears her throat, hoping it will reduce the heat of her embarrassment. “She dropped me at the train station, actually.” 

“Yeah, I know. Octavia told me,” Lincoln admits. Lexa backhands him across his chest and attempts to scowl. “Sorry, I had to mess with you a little bit. I haven’t seen you in forever!” 

“That’s your one free one.” Empty threats, and they both know it. 

“Yeah, sure. Okay,” Lincoln plays along, nevertheless slinging an arm around the back of Lexa’s stool. 

The bartender approaches before Lexa can respond, and Lincoln reaches across the bar to slap her hand in a familiar exchange. “What’s good, Lincoln?”

“Hey, what’s up, Taylor?” 

“What are you drinking?” she asks him while sliding a coaster in front of him. 

He nods to Lexa’s pint of beer. “What’s this?”

“It’s that kölsch-inspired one from Winter Hill,” Lexa answers. “It’s really smooth.” 

“Okay, cool. I’ll do the same. Thanks.” 

“You guys eating?”

“Yeah, I’d love to see a menu,” Lexa tells her. 

Taylor nods, reaching for two rolls of cutlery from beneath the bar. “You got it. I’ll be right back.” 

“Okay, so: what happened? What’s happening? Tell me everything. How was your Christmas?” 

Lexa can’t help but laugh at Lincoln’s eager requests, rattled off with palpable excitement. She takes a deep breath. “Christmas was definitely interesting.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

Taylor returns with Lincoln’s beer and two menus. She mumbles something quick and low in Spanish to Lincoln that makes him laugh. 

“She’s got some real pretentious dicks on the other side of the bar,” Lincoln informs her once Taylor has left them to tend to her other customers. Because the bar is circular, Lincoln attempts to scope out the situation on the other side of the bar by peering through the rows of bottles, glassware, and flatscreen TVs that create a barrier between both sides. 

“Think we should bounce them out of here?” 

Lincoln laughs into his first sip of beer. “Let me have another pint and I’ll let you know.” He finishes another long sip before sliding his glass back onto the bar. “Alright, let’s hear it.” 

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why Clarke is suddenly in such a supremely good mood despite working her second double in a row, and why you haven’t been able to wipe that idiot grin off your face since I walked in. Wait—also, what did Anya get you for Christmas?” 

Lexa rolls her eyes, hoisting up with disdain an article of outerwear from the stool beside her. “Stupid hat.” 

Lincoln swallows his mouthful of beer and laughs, nodding approvingly. “Classic An. Okay so, what exactly happened while you were at home?” 

Lexa watches her fingers trace the darker patterns that thread the marble bar top. “For one, Costia and I met for coffee after Christmas and finally had that long overdue conversation I’ve been avoiding.” 

“Hey, you weren’t the only one avoiding,” Lincoln reminds her. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“And so, it’s over?”

Lexa exhales, reaching again for her pint of beer and taking a low sip. “I think it’d been over for a while, but: yes. In an official capacity, we ended it.”

“And, how are you and Costia? Okay?”

“Yeah, we’re good. We’d been such good friends anyway—I honestly think that was a huge part of what complicated things for us for so long.” 

Lincoln hedges his reaction. “I want to be _really_ happy for you right now because you basically look like you just dropped this huge weight around your neck, but … are you okay with everything?” 

“I am.” She looks up to meet his eye as if to prove herself. “It felt right. And, I’m—” Her traitorous lips, already pulling at their edges in a smile, will give her away every time. “I’m really good actually.” 

“Good because I’m so happy for you, buddy.” Lincoln squeezes her shoulder with the hand resting on her stool. “Okay so, I know you and Clarke are talking again—and, believe me, we’re all relieved as hell about that—but, what exactly have you told her?” 

“You mean about Costia?” 

Lincoln finishes his sip of beer, pinning her with a look he must have learned from Anya because Lexa feels absolutely transparent. “I mean, I think Costia is just the tip of a pretty substantial iceberg, but sure. Let’s start there.” 

At his candid retort, Lexa exhales a laugh and grasps her beer. “I’m fairly certain Clarke knows that my feelings for her aren’t entirely platonic, if that’s what you mean.” Her mind flashes briefly to the lighting and warmth of Clarke’s kitchen, the scent of toasted bagels and freshly ground coffee. 

Lincoln claps his hands, as he so often does in moments of triumph, and smiles broadly. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that we are _finally_ having this conversation.”

“I know. Me too.” In spite of her nerves constantly bubbling to the surface, Lexa is also flooded with the acute relief of authenticity. 

“Have you seen her since you’ve been back?” 

“We spent some time together on Friday.” Lexa ineffectually bites at her lip to keep from smiling. She thinks of slow hugs, soft hand-holding, and timid admissions amid charged goodbyes. Their interactions thus far have been so buffered by innocence, Lexa cannot believe the way her stomach swoops at her memory of them. “I brought her bagels.” 

“Suave.”

“Listen, she—I wasn’t attempting to be _romantic_.”

Lincoln doesn’t miss a beat. “Liar.”

“Clarke has been living her entire life under the misguided assumption that a small, newly established bagel shop in northern Massachusetts is on par with legitimate New York bagels, Lincoln.” The severity in Lexa’s tone has him visibly amused. “I felt it my sacred duty to correct this misconception.” 

“You brought her Bergen’s, didn’t you?” 

Lexa looks offended at the ask. “Like I would offer her anything less.”

“And, where are _my_ Christmas bagels?”

She rolls her eyes, reaching for her nearby pint. “Linc—”

“Okay, I see how it is. Too hung up on impressing Clarke to remember one of your oldest friends.” He is nodding, self-righteously. 

_Like a lovable idiot._

“I’m beginning to second-guess your request to hang out today,” she tells him while averting her eyes to the paper menu in front of her. 

Lincoln laughs at her stern tone, knowing it’s a bluff, and returns his arm to rest along the back of her stool. 

“How are you actually feeling about this?”

“Sharing an afternoon drink with you? I’m of two minds at the moment.”

“Now who’s being a jackass?” Lincoln grins. “So, you’re scared out of your mind about Clarke then?” 

_Yes. Absolutely. The nervous uncertainty is all-consuming._

Lexa shrugs, ignoring her inner anxieties and recites aloud the mantra of useless facts she’s been telling herself for days.

“Clarke and I have been close for quite awhile. She knows me, maybe better than most people. Despite any potential uncertainties, we’re operating on the foundation of a very sound friendship.” 

Lincoln watches her like she’s come entirely unhinged. “Okay, yeah. Do you have any idea how incredibly shook I was at the prospect of kissing _my friend_ Octavia?” 

At the thought of kissing Clarke—images painted vividly by her traitorous mind—a breath lodges in her chest, and Lexa must return to her beer for fear of passing out.

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m just trying to get you to be honest with yourself. And me, for that matter. I mean, I’m just assuming—knowing how much you overthink every goddamn thing to death—that you haven’t slept with her yet.”

“Jesus, Lincoln.” Lexa swallows her embarrassment through multiple sips of beer. 

“For that matter, you probably haven’t even kissed her yet.”

“I can hardly think about … _that_ yet,” she manages to say without her voice croaking from the strain. 

“Kudos to you for being able to think about anything else.” 

“I have, obviously, considered the prospect. I just—more than anything I keep thinking about how I want to be around her _all_ the time.” 

“No offense, because I mean this genuinely and supportively as your friend, but are you just now figuring that out?” 

“Shut up,” Lexa laughs. 

:::

The food, as it turns out, is notable. 

Lexa orders chicken fried steak and eggs with chorizo gravy and griddled potatoes, immediately lulled into a state of happy sedation as she clears her plate. 

Lincoln groans his satisfaction as well, leaning back into his stool when he’s finished. “Damn. That was so good.” 

“I might nap on this stool. Your friend would be okay with that, right?” 

“Yeah, obviously.” Lincoln stretches his arms over his head and folds his hands behind the base of his neck. “A good bartender is always looking to have her guests fall asleep at the bar.” 

“Okay good,” Lexa answers with a sleepy smile and suppresses an actual yawn with the back of her hand. 

“What are you up to for the rest of your day?” 

“This meal has completely erased any prior motivation to workout. My couch sounds pretty nice right now.” 

The sun is setting and the streetlamps have begun to flicker on along the cobblestreet outside the restaurant windows. 

“Not gonna go lurking outside Dockside until Clarke gets out of work?” Lincoln prompts with a teasing wink. 

“Why do I feel like this was an actual tactic used on Octavia?”

“An _effective_ tactic, you might say.” 

“No,” Lexa laughs. “I’m not planning to stalk Clarke at her place of business, you creep.” 

“Suit yourself,” Lincoln shrugs. “If you need any tips, I’m just sayin’.” 

Lexa’s laughter is more of a cackle, lost in the increasing din of the Sunday evening bar crowd. “I think I’m all set. Thanks.” 

“Oh okay, here we go—two beers later, she is confidence personified.” 

Taylor returns to collect their empty plates, and Lincoln, practically gleeful, seizes on an opportunity to embarrass Lexa in a public setting. 

“Taylor, help me out here—first kisses with relative strangers versus first kisses with a friend-turned-something-more. Generally speaking, which one makes you more nervous?” 

“Why?” Taylor grins, bracing herself across from them with both hands grasping to the edge of the bar top. “Is one of you about to ask me to makeout?” 

Lexa smothers a mortified _oh-my-god_ against the palms of her hands where she has covered her face. 

“No, no,” Lincoln laughs while shaking his head. “Like I would ever do anything to get Toni on my bad side—your girlfriend might be more intimidating than Octavia.” 

“She’s gonna love hearing that,” Taylor smiles. 

“The thing is, Lexa here—”

“Would love the check,” Lexa interjects, pinning Lincoln with her most threatening glare while her cheeks still burn warmly. “And, for reasons yet unclear to me, I’ll take Lincoln’s too. You can put us on the same tab.” 

“You got it,” Taylor chuckles, and strides off to the kitchen with their empty dishes. 

As Lexa signs for the tab, leaving an exorbitant tip to somehow assuage her own embarrassment as well as fulfill an unspoken creed between service industry workers, Lincoln warmly grabs her shoulder. 

“Thanks. This was a great way to spend my otherwise very boring Sunday while O is stuck at work.” 

“Lucky for you, my Sunday plans were also foiled.” 

“So glad we could be each other’s second fiddle,” Lincoln grins. 

Lexa returns his familiar smile. “Anytime.” 

They bundle back into their coats and hats and gloves before Lincoln waves and shouts a quick farewell to Taylor from across the bar. As they push through the front entryway back out into the cold and wind and lightly dusted snowy sidewalk, Lincoln wraps an arm around Lexa’s shoulder and hugs her closer. 

“Thanks again—you didn’t have to pick up the tab, buddy.” 

“Think of it as your belated Christmas present. Besides, you basically always pay whenever we hang out. I owe you.” 

For the drinks and food, yes. But, Lexa also feels indebted to Lincoln’s unending kindness and patient listening as everything between she and Clarke has unfolded. 

“You don’t owe me anything, but that food does make for a great belated Christmas present.”

“Well, it’s not pumpernickel bagels and pimento cream cheese, but,” Lexa shrugs, looking up to catch Lincoln’s eye just as his expression creases painfully. 

“Aw man, did you have to bring up the pimento cream cheese?!” 

Lexa laughs and savors the warmth of Lincoln’s broad frame close beside her. 

:::

Sometime between the distance of Lincoln’s apartment, where they had parted after a smothering hug, and Lexa’s front entryway, her phone buzzes from within her coat pocket. When she sees Clarke’s name as the incoming call, she quickly removes a glove with her teeth and swipes to answer. 

“Hey.” It’s so cold now that the sun has set, her breath is frozen in puffs, but the anticipation of hearing Clarke’s voice builds a warmth deep in her stomach. “How are you?” 

“Oh my god, I’m so _tired_ ,” Clarke whimpers. 

_Always so dramatic._

Still, she has sympathy for Clarke’s long and tiresome hours of unexpected work over the weekend. Lexa shuffles across an empty crosswalk, hurrying towards her street as other pedestrians bustle past in bulky winter wear. “Sorry you’ve been stuck there for two days.” 

“I was prepared for Saturday. Today has kicked my ass. Where are you? It sounds windy. Oh my god, please tell me you aren’t running in this weather.” 

Lexa laughs as she reaches her apartment and searches for her keys while keeping her phone pinned against her shoulder. “I’m walking home from grabbing food and drinks with Lincoln.” 

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry, my brain is fried. Drinks and food sound so nice right now,” Clarke practically whines. 

Lexa pushes into the warmth of the stairwell and begins to take the stairs to her apartment. “Seeing Lincoln was really nice, although it was _you_ I was hoping to share a meal with today.” 

“Were you?” 

She can hear Clarke better now as she unlatches the locks of her apartment’s front door and steps inside a quiet, darkened room. She smiles shyly at Clarke’s surprised delight and lightly clears her throat. 

“Yes.”

“And what did these plans entail?” 

Lexa used to wonder constantly about Clarke’s intentions—whether or not she was consciously aware of the provocative ring to her voice. Presently, Lexa requires no translation: Clarke’s flirtation is unmistakable. 

“I wanted to take you out for brunch.”

“I would have loved that.” Clarke sounds beyond charmed, and Lexa’s entire face warms.

“That’s—that’s good to know,” she responds, exhaling shakily at Clarke’s belated acceptance to a date they never got to have. 

“Actually, I had brunch plans for us today too!”

“Oh yeah?” Lexa’s intrigue instantly distracts from her spike of nerves. 

“Yes! They involved homemade waffles and really nice prosecco I absconded with the last time I left my mom’s and, most importantly, _not being at work_ for over nine hours.” 

Lexa clicks on a nearby lamp and shuffles out of her coat but does not bother to remove her absurd winter hat. The idea of Clarke making plans for them—specifically plans that involve home-cooked meals and sharing bubbly wine in Clarke’s home—sets Lexa’s stomach fluttering as she collapses onto her sofa. 

“Well, for future reference, I’d be up for drinking prosecco with you any time, appropriated or otherwise.”

“This is good information to have.” 

Lexa cozies into the couch cushions at the sound of Clarke’s laugh, wishing desperately that they were sat side by side, filling each other in on their day. She might weave her fingers into Clarke’s hair to help her relax or pull Clarke’s legs into her lap to massage her calf muscles after a long shift at the bar. 

“How was your afternoon with Lincoln?” 

“He was very upset about being excluded from the New York bagel delivery.” 

More of Clarke’s laughter broadens the small smile on Lexa’s mouth. “They were indeed very enviable bagels.” 

“I'm glad you liked them. We’ll have to get more sometime.”

A pregnant beat in which Clarke doesn’t immediately respond has Lexa’s heart racing. “In New York?”

The insinuation of taking Clarke to Brooklyn is lightyears ahead of asking her to brunch, and Lexa scrambles to backtrack her overzealous suggestion while pulling her stupid hat over her eyes. “I, um—I didn’t mean—”

“Lexa, I’m sorry— _ugh_ ,” Clarke grunts in frustration. “I have to go help one of our servers with something.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, of course. I’ll let you go,” Lexa fumbles to say, grateful that Clarke’s endless string of responsibilities has saved her from more useless stuttering. 

“Can I call you when I’m finished here? If it’s not too late?” 

Lexa sits up and finally removes her hat. “Call me whenever.” 

“Okay.” Lexa can hear the grin in Clarke’s response and indulges in one of her own. “Oh, and if the invitation still stands, I would go with you to New York any time, with or without the promise of bagels.” 

Lexa cannot stop smiling. She doesn’t even try. 

::: 

  
  



	9. Most Easy: Zero Gravity (Burlington, VT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: takes place while Lexa + Lincoln are on business for Trikru in Vermont just prior to Clarke + Lexa’s first kiss
> 
> Beer: Most Easy  
> SESSION IPA
> 
> A hoppy session beer bursting with Nelson, Citra, El Dorado, and Mosaic hops.
> 
> ABV 4.9%

Most Easy: Zero Gravity ( _Burlington, VT_ )

:::

The drive north is stunning. It’s a part of the country Lexa has never seen, and she can’t help feeling like they’re driving through a regional postcard as the road carves through white capped mountains and unending pines. She and Lincoln talk sporadically, reviewing their individual tasks for their day in Vermont, while Lexa simultaneously attempts to use the landscape to calm her wandering thoughts as visions of nearly kissing Clarke at the delivery hatch continually haunt her. 

The local brewers with whom they meet are receptive and the meetings are consistently productive. She’s stretching her wings a bit, flexing some muscles she hasn’t used since her time at Columbia studying law. Lexa hopes to carve out a more defined role for herself within the Trikru family, and it feels good to push past her recent comforts of sales and distribution to really challenge herself. Negotiations are underway for what Lexa predicts will be an uncontested success for the expansion of Indra’s brand. All in all, Vermont is an overwhelming success, and Lexa settles into a seat at the bar at the end of their day feeling accomplished and proud of the work she and Lincoln have set in motion. 

“Turns out you’re a savage negotiator—you put on quite an impressive show during those meetings today, buddy.” 

Lincoln is watching her with unrestrained admiration while they wait on menus. Lexa looks away with a smile. They’ve wandered to the South End of Burlington to check out Zero Gravity’s taproom, which is sat beside a local pizza shop. Rearranging their schedule to meet with all the brewers in one day had been taxing, but Lexa is relieved to have finished with the prospect of heading home first thing in the morning. 

“It was a collaborative effort,” she demurs, still feeling adrenaline coursing through her from their last meeting. The appointments with small, local brewers have spanned almost an entire day, culminating with their last and final pitch late in the evening. Lexa checks the time on her wrist to see the hour approaching 9pm. 

Even as the day wanes and exhaustion is due to set in, she’s almost entirely distracted by nerves. Despite her intuitive prowess out in the field, Lexa is focused far less on Trikru’s expanding business and brand at the moment. 

Her racing thoughts have but one destination: _Clarke_.

Clarke’s full lips and bright eyes and addictive laughter. Clarke’s fingers latched with her own and the sensation of Clarke’s arms sliding around her waist in a languid hug. 

The bartender arrives just as Lexa reaches for her phone to check her messages, hoping to see Clarke’s name on her screen. It’s been hours since their last contact, and Lexa is impatient with a need to reconnect. There’s a text from her dad about some big, winter storm making its way up the east coast, but nothing else. She tries to tamp down a surge of disappointment. 

They place an order for beer—sour ale for Lincoln and a session IPA for Lexa—before Lincoln returns to unabashedly singing her praises. 

“I can’t believe Indra’s had one of her most valuable assets lugging pony kegs for the past six months when you just commanded that room like a boss.” 

“Being sort of mindlessly productive through manual labor is exactly what I needed at the time.” 

“Yeah, I guess that’s fair,” Lincoln agrees. “It’s been quite a year for you.” 

“Yes, you definitely undersold the experience of moving up the coast to work for ‘an up-and-coming craft brewery with a ton of potential.’” 

Lincoln laughs easily. “Listen, I had pretty solid predictions about you getting on with the group of friends I’ve made up here—I did _not_ anticipate you and Clarke ending up, well, ya know.” 

“Right,” Lexa fights a grin. “I didn’t really see that coming either.” 

“Not until at least your third week anyway.”

“Three weeks?” Lexa scoffs. “You’re full of shit.” 

“You’re right,” Lincoln contemplates while spinning his coaster against the bar top. “It might have been closer to two weeks, actually.” 

“Jackass.” She swats his arm with the back of her hand, knowing full well the exact moment her interest in Clarke went beyond an innocent friendship. Not that she would ever grant him the satisfaction of knowing just how accurate his predictions are. 

Lincoln is already laughing, even as he defends himself. “I’m sorry, but between you and Clarke, subtlety was _not_ your forte.” 

“Whatever.” Lexa’s ineloquence is paired with her own laughter, further weakening her retort. “I know I should be really excited that things went so well for Indra today, but I can’t stop thinking about—” Lexa stops just shy of admitting how she’s been imagining every potential scenario of kissing Clarke for the past several days, and honestly, for much longer. 

“Clarke?” Lincoln smiles. 

“She’s really distracting.” 

“It’s nice to be distracted by someone. Do you have any idea how many times I walked into the metal shelving in the stockroom at Dockside all because Octavia had said _hey_ to me?” 

Their laughter continues at Lincoln’s expense until Lexa releases a cleansing sigh. 

“Are you still feeling good about everything?” Lincoln asks, accepting his beer from the bartender while offering his thanks and taking his first sip. “Looked like things were going pretty well for you based on what I glanced at Dockside earlier.” 

Lexa’s breath stutters as she looks away with a blushing smile at Lincoln’s candor. He’d inadvertently played audience to what was almost her first kiss with Clarke some hours before, and her brain kindly replays the moment between them for the sixteenth time. Denial is instinctual. She wants to pretend Lincoln doesn’t have her number on this (and most things), but it’s been a long day and she no longer has the energy to be purposely obtuse.

“Honestly, the notion of kissing her for the first time is sort of driving me mad at this point.”

“Hold up—you haven’t even _kissed_ her yet?” Lincoln’s outright laughter would be offensive if he weren’t also wrapping an arm around her shoulders affectionately. “Oh my god, Lex, no wonder you’re going mental.” 

“I’m trying to go _slowly_ , okay? Because of where I’m at and navigating our friendship in the absence of Costia, we’re just taking things gradually. And, the pace of things has been … good.” Lexa swallows, running a hand through her hair in hopes it will release even a fraction of the tension she currently feels. “Clarke is great about everything, _really_ great. She’s so intuitive and patient, I just—I don’t know if I’m capable of easing into this thing with her for much longer. I’m trying, because I think it’s the right thing to do, but I feel like being, I don’t know, impulsive. Does that make any sense?” 

“Okay, now I know you two have been spending too much time together—look at you: you’re _rambling_!” Lincoln is unmistakably delighted by Lexa’s current unraveling.

She finds solace in her beer, hiding another embarrassed smile against its frothy rim. “Be nice to me. I’ve never experienced something like this before.” 

“Oh really?” Lincoln goads sarcastically. “You’ve never made a friend and then accidentally fallen for them?” 

“I’m not—”

Lincoln stalls her rebuttal with a gentle hand to her forearm. “Not worth trying to deny it, pal. I’ve literally seen it with my own eyes. You are so far beyond the _like_ stage when it comes to Clarke.” Lexa’s cheeks continue to burn, scorched with embarrassment at being called out, but Lincoln charges on like a freight train. “And, by the way, you’ve spent the better part of your adult years being cautious and measured—you should _absolutely_ allow yourself some completely irresponsible and reckless decision-making.” 

Lexa chuckles into another sip of her beer. It’s really unfair that Lincoln knows her so well. There’s no use trying to argue with him. “Honestly, if I were on this trip alone, I’d probably get back in the truck and make the drive home tonight just to see her sooner.” 

“Yes!” Lincoln fist pumps. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Oh my god—let’s do that. We’re totally getting out of here!” 

Any previous laughter vanishes as Lexa shakes her head. “Lincoln, I was kidding.”

He’s already scanning for the bartender, pointedly trying to catch her eye to request the check, and even Lexa repeatedly smacking his bicep cannot deter him. 

“No, you weren’t, Lex. You’re deflecting because you think I don’t know what a huge, embarrassing romantic you are.” 

He manages to get the check even as Lexa continues to protest. “We just finished a gruelling day of meetings—I cannot ask you to turn around and drive three hours through the mountains at 9:00 at night. We wouldn’t even get home until midnight!” 

“You didn’t ask,” Lincoln counters. “I offered. And, we’re totally doing this.” He’s already thrown cash on the bar for their half-finished beers. 

Lincoln stands beside her, appearing for all intents and purposes ready to throw Lexa over his shoulder and carry her to the truck if she refuses to comply. She releases a heavy sigh and reaches for her coat and hat, defeated by his unwavering determination despite her reservations. 

They grab a pizza from the shop adjacent to share on the drive and are on the road in under twenty minutes with Lincoln beaming ridiculously behind the wheel. 

:::

At some point while driving through New Hampshire, the niggling doubt and unease Lexa felt as they left Burlington has amplified significantly. 

“This is a really dumb idea.” 

“What? No! This is epic!”

“Lincoln, I’m not going to just show up at her house _again_. It’ll be after midnight at this rate—I’m going to text her.” 

Lexa is already reaching for her phone as Lincoln stretches along the truck's wide bench seat to stop her. “No, no, no, come on. The element of surprise is so much better. It’s impulsive and stupid and perfect, and there is no way in hell that Clarke will be anything less than ecstatic to have you show up at her front door. No matter what time of night.” 

He makes a compelling argument, but even the mere notion of what he’s describing has Lexa’s palms aching with nerves. Her stomach churns at the implications of showing up at Clarke’s house—a woman she fully intends to kiss soundly and thoroughly, preferably the very second she lays eyes on her—because you don’t turn up on someone’s doorstep at this time of night expecting to leave until morning. 

“We should stop talking about this.” Lexa swallows roughly, exhaling her anxiety into the darkened cab of the truck while rubbing her palms against the material of her jeans. “Tell me something that will distract me from this asinine plan I let you talk me into.” 

Lincoln glances in her direction quickly with a laugh. “Okay, uh—” he drums his fingers against the steering wheel “—well, I asked Octavia if she wanted to get married.” 

“Very funny,” Lexa rolls her eyes, landing her gaze on Lincoln’s profile and immediately recognizing the authenticity in his words. “Oh my god, you’re serious. You’re _serious_?”

“What, you think I can do better?” His perfectly delivered sarcasm breaks the atmosphere and Lexa laughs. 

“Of course not. I’m just—wow. That’s—” she thinks about them together, how Lincoln has always been so soft and strong and kind; how his gentle temperament has melded with Octavia’s sharp confidence and strengthened them both, even in the short time she has witnessed them together “—that’s amazing, Linc.” Lexa smiles at him. “I’m incredibly happy for you.” 

“Thanks. That means a lot, buddy.”

“I assume she said yes?”

“After some cajoling,” Lincoln laughs. “O has never been psyched on marriage as a social construct, but I think she said something like: if I’m going to allow anyone to call me their wife, it would be you.” 

“A resounding acceptance of your offer.” 

“Totally!” 

More of Lincoln’s laughter fills up the quiet cab, and Lexa relaxes into the seat, feeling a kind of settled warmth at the turn of events for her friend—once abandoned and abused, surviving on scraps of fleeting comfort and security. But, Lincoln never gave in to defeat; he never let his anger entirely consume him. His adoptive mothers’ unwavering love helped to nurture the compassion that has always been innately Lincoln, and now Octavia has fortified his tender spirit. 

They drive in a comforting silence for many miles as Lexa traces the silhouettes of northern pines along the highway, willfully ignoring the text from Clarke in her pocket that reads: _I hope your meetings went well. I can’t wait to see you._

:::

“I can’t do this.” 

Lexa sits in the driver’s seat with the door ajar as Lincoln stands beside her in his coat and gloves. The frigid nighttime temperatures are extinguishing all the heat they’d acquired in the cab of the truck over the past three hours, but Lexa hardly feels the chill. 

“Yes, you can,” Lincoln reiterates for at least the seventh time, smiling as he slips his hat over his shaved head. “Octavia said they just left the bar so Clarke probably isn’t home yet, and even if she is, she’s definitely not asleep.”

Lexa covers her face with her hands and suppresses a pathetic whimper. “This is a bad idea.”

“This is a _great_ idea—stop doubting yourself and get over there!” 

“She’s going to think I’m an idiot for showing up like this.” 

“She already knows you’re an idiot,” Lincoln laughs. “Look: you’ll show up, she’ll finally kiss you, and then you two will very likely get up to a bunch of other stuff I don’t necessarily want to think about.” 

Lexa peeks out from behind her hands that still shade her eyes to meet Lincoln’s grinning face. “You are very much _not helping_.” 

“Get out of here!” Lincoln closes her into the truck with a resounding laugh and smacks the door for good measure. 

Without Lincoln's (rather abrasive but loving) support, she nearly abandons the plan at least a hundred times between the front door of his apartment where she’d left him and Clarke’s house on the harbor. The distance is no more than two miles but feels more like scaling a treacherous summit without a safety net. Her heart has never hammered so loudly as it does when the narrow, winding road along the water bends to bring the eccentric architecture of Clarke’s pale green house into view. Lexa can actually see Clarke exiting her car as the truck’s headlights illuminate the pebbled driveway and front walkway, and her breathing shudders painfully in her lungs. 

By the time Clarke has reached her front door, Lexa has very poorly maneuvered the truck onto the side of the road in front of Clarke’s house, slamming the gear into park before she blacks out from sheer panic. With nerves ricocheting through her entire body, palms sweating, and head buzzing, Lexa climbs out of the truck on unsteady legs. She can hardly hear herself making words over the cacophony of her heart beating in her ears, but then Clarke kisses her—

—and everything stills. 

Clarke kisses her a second time, and Lexa can feel a shifting in everything that binds her. A pleasant tilting of her previous existence. There is something deep within her that seems to right itself, and Lexa can finally breathe. 

As she fumbles for the doorknob while fighting to keep contact with Clarke’s mouth, her nerves cease to constrict her movements. She is freer and lighter than she has been in ages, pushing against Clarke until they are stumbling into the warmth of her dimly lit entryway. 

In the absence of her nerves, Lexa allows the reality of what they’re doing to filter into her consciousness. She is pressing her mouth to Clarke’s, feeling the soft give of her lips as they acquaint to sensations that Lexa has spent months longing for. She moves slowly with purpose, lips separating and reconnecting amid quick gasps of air—she intends to savor the nuances of this moment that she has waited so long to experience. 

But then some fraction of her nerves must still be present because the notion of Clarke’s mouth on hers, greedy and seeking, produces an ill-timed surge of laughter. 

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Having found a whisper of her voice, she speaks the admission between the scant space of their mouths and her laughter settles. “I can’t believe I’m kissing you.” The raw honesty escapes her in a long held breath of relief. But, it’s more than that, too. An insufficient sentiment on how Lexa actually feels. 

Because Clarke is allowing for something to happen that Lexa has for so long wanted, as much as she is also allowing herself to finally give in to her impulses. Her disbelief feels more specific, and Lexa rephrases a breath later. “I can’t believe I finally get to kiss you.” 

The way that Clarke kisses her after that has Lexa’s head spinning and pulse thrumming. They are hastily removing heavy, winter coats and given more purchase for freely roaming hands. She feels Clarke’s tongue for the first time—hot, open-mouthed kisses and soft moans—and there are suddenly synapses of arousal firing that had fallen dormant for so long, Lexa forgot they ever existed. 

When Clarke asks for something slower, and softer, and measured, Lexa forgets her haste and leads them farther into the quiet house. There is a small lamp beside the sofa, gently illuminating the otherwise darkened room, so that as Clarke straddles across Lexa’s lap, she is cast in a warm, yellow light. Lexa can see the fatigue of a twelve-hour shift in Clarke’s eyes and in the loose waves of hair that frame her face, having escaped her messy bun. 

She is breathtaking. 

Staring up at Clarke in this way, hands sweating as her pulse resumes its elevated pace, Lexa remembers so much that came before. She recounts all the days and weeks she spent imagining this moment with Clarke—not just removing their physical barriers, but the authenticity that would allow for it to happen. She had not just anticipated the feel of Clarke’s lips or the way her body would react to experiencing the touch of Clarke’s hands, Lexa had also envisioned all the words they had carefully withheld, finally set free. 

“How long?” 

Clarke’s response seems to lag as her eyes flit across Lexa’s face. “How long?” 

Unable to soothe her nerves by adjusting the collar of her tee shirt, Lexa settles for the sensation of sliding her fingers between Clarke’s again and again. “How long have you been waiting?” 

It’s a question to which they both know the answer, but they have spent too long leaving things unsaid. Clarke smiles, and Lexa holds her breath. 

“For this?” Clarke’s weight settles more firmly against her, and Lexa thinks she may be having an out-of-body experience. The kisses that follow are somehow sweeter and more intense than any of those preceding. “Since the beginning.” 

She kisses Clarke with new intent. It’s everything she knew, everything Clarke had been silently telling her since that day on the docks—with the sun in her eyes, an inviting smile, and an offer Lexa was almost powerless to refuse. She knew what Clarke wanted and what she thought she couldn’t give her. But, to hear it out loud bolsters Lexa’s confidence as her hands grip surely to Clarke’s waist and her tongue explores the contours of Clarke’s mouth. 

Perhaps it is the heat and pressure of their new positioning, perhaps it’s the persistent and gentle suction of Clarke’s mouth against the skin of her neck, but Lexa nearly unveils all of her secrets in one, rushing breath of honesty.

“I wish we could have done this,” she says instead, a fraction of everything that threatens to escape her. “Before,” she clarifies. “Way before.” 

Lexa thinks about every time she allowed herself to imagine kissing Clarke, or experiencing this type of uninhibited closeness. In a million different scenarios, it was never this. 

_This is so much better._

Clarke is watching her now, a look of careful assessment and expectation, and Lexa nearly buckles under her gaze. 

“I wanted to.” A smile follows Lexa’s admission. The honesty feels like releasing a heavy stone at her core; she has become featherweight, and Lexa is glad for Clarke’s anchoring presence to keep her from floating away. “But, I’m glad we didn’t.” 

It’s not everything she needs to say, but it is enough for Clarke to echo, “Me too.” 

She suspects that they have been in this unspoken sync of desire for quite some time, shrouded in friendship but always there, simmering beneath the surface. No matter what happens from here—and Lexa futilely works to temper her wandering thoughts so as not to become completely overwhelmed—they are in this together. And, that is enough for now. 

:::

Waking up in Clarke’s bed for the first time ushers in fresh nerves as Lexa adjusts to her surroundings: the lighting, the bed covers, the sight of Clarke nearby. The sensation of lying naked in an unfamiliar bed with her best friend has Lexa’s stomach swooping as Clarke watches her slowly waking. Lexa’s eyes begin to trace the lines of Clarke’s shape, backlit by the rising sun, while vivid images resurface in a breath-taking rush. Lexa remembers all of the things that have transpired between them in the past several hours—the touch and movement, the sounds and rhythm; the letting go. 

“Are you finally ready to be awake?” Clarke eventually says. 

Lexa can’t help the way her mouth curls into a smile as she thinks of all the ways in which they had kept themselves occupied long into the early morning hours. 

“What time is it?” she responds through a quiet yawn, rubbing sleep from her eyes as she rolls to face Clarke. 

“So late,” Clarke says with widening eyes, nevertheless smiling warmly. “I do not remember the last time I slept until after 11am.”

Despite her accelerated pulse, Lexa reaches a hand across the mattress so that the backs of her fingers can stroke across Clarke’s skin. There is brief talk of food and how to acquire it—Clarke’s perpetual hunger always circulating in their conversations at regular intervals. 

“No more leaving.” Clarke furrows her brow at Lexa’s suggestion to exit the house in search of food, nearly pouting, and Lexa laughs. 

Even the newness of this dynamic and the uncertainty Lexa feels coursing through her, isn’t enough to keep her from moving closer, a magnetic pull towards Clarke’s protruding lower lip. She kisses the warm patches of Clarke’s skin between her breasts and sternum and detects an accelerated heartbeat beneath her palm which has slipped around Clarke’s ribcage. 

“Keeping me hostage?” Lexa grins. 

It’s a thrill to consider the prospect of being kept by Clarke in any capacity; having her confirm her intentions a moment later has Lexa’s stomach fluttering. 

Clarke hums as an arm wraps around Lexa’s back, pulling her in closer so that her skin—already prickling in anticipation of the contact—is again pressing against Clarke’s. Lexa finds their mouths aligned, a breath apart. 

“Okay,” she softly responds and closes the distance between their lips. 

Less than eight hours separates their last kiss from this one, and yet Lexa has entirely underestimated the swell in her chest as full lips slide against her own, soft and warm and already searching. 

She thinks they might be attuned to each other’s movements even after a few short hours of exploration because as Lexa pulls back, purposefully shifting her leg that is notched between Clarke’s, she waits for the change in Clarke’s expression as her pupils dilate and her lips drop open by a breath. 

(Or perhaps, the serotonin addling her brain is more powerful than she realizes.)

“Didn’t you just say you were hungry?” 

“Did I?” Clarke smiles, wetting her lips when her gaze drops to Lexa’s mouth. Her hand skates down Lexa’s side and over the curve of her hip. 

It sounds flirtatious—the way most things do when Clarke says them—but also like she’s genuinely distracted, and Lexa decides to take full advantage of both scenarios at once. 

She kisses down Clarke’s neck while her hands retrace patterns that she had mapped the night before. There are soft swells and hard planes of Clarke’s body beneath her fingertips, and Lexa is still in disbelief that she is allowed to touch without restraint. She continues to tamp down a persistent flutter of uncertainty, finding encouragement in Clarke’s movements beneath her and the way her hands grip to Lexa’s hip bones. Still, her breath stutters in an exhale as her mouth hovers over Clarke’s breasts. 

Clarke reciprocates with an appreciative gasp as Lexa’s tongue rolls across a taut nipple. For all that she was drowsy with sleep a few minutes ago, Lexa’s pulse races at the sound. There’s no stopping her hips from falling into a slow-synced rhythm with Clarke’s, and within seconds, her hand is wedged between them and slipping into Clarke’s wet folds. 

She feels _so good_ , and Lexa is instantly primed to tell Clarke just how amazing she is. How this morning and last night and every moment they’ve shared since Christmas has been so much more than Lexa had ever expected to have together. She feels as if her chest has burst open when she is this close to Clarke, and it puts her at risk of saying entirely too much, actually.

But then, Clarke threads her fingers into Lexa’s hair and groans, “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

It is indisputably the best way Lexa has woken up in ages.

She represses an urge to stumble over her own response and kisses Clarke instead. She wants to avoid some clumsy reiteration of how incredibly lucky she is that Clarke considered her worth the wait. Because there was no promise of them ever getting here, no guarantee that Lexa would wake up and make a change to her circumstances, but somehow Clarke knew. She trusted in their friendship and in their potential to be something even more, and for that Lexa is freer, and braver, and she wishes Clarke knew how much she— 

Lexa swallows her bold proclamation and swings a leg over Clarke’s hips instead, giving her hand more freedom to move as it slips lower to tease Clarke’s entrance. Clarke’s quiet whimpering is covered by Lexa’s open-mouthed kiss as two fingers press easily inside and Clarke’s legs fall open to thrust upwards against Lexa’s hand. There are still some things worth saying without words. 

Using her hips as leverage, Lexa pushes into Clarke as far as her fingers will take her, building an orgasm that has Clarke clawing at the muscles of her back and panting into their hungry kisses. 

Lexa wants to savor these new intimacies—this closeness and honesty that allows her to see Clarke’s hidden vulnerabilities and to share her own. A part of her wants to prolong these little discoveries of Clarke’s scents and sounds, the way her body shifts and pulls against Lexa’s movements. 

Of course, Clarke is a bit more directive when it comes to physical intimacy, as Lexa had always suspected she would be. 

When Lexa finds a quicker pace, working Clarke closer to release, Clarke tilts her pelvis upwards to chase the contact. 

“Don’t stop—oh my god, Lexa, I’m so close. _Fuck_.” 

It’s been all of eight minutes, but Lexa could very well do this with Clarke for eight _hours_ without wanting to stop, or so her current state of arousal is telling her. 

She switches the pattern and pressure of her fingers, forcing Clarke to break their kiss as her body begins to go rigid and her breathing grows more strained. 

“Right there, oh my _god_.”

She has been attracted to Clarke’s voice for longer than she should admit, but hearing breathless words of encouragement in Clarke’s morning rasp makes any other iteration of her voice pale by comparison. 

Lexa hovers above her and watches her body flush with mounting pleasure. Even after a handful of times seeing Clarke come apart under her touch, this is already Lexa’s favorite part. Clarke’s enormous personality—that overt presence, brash humor, and unrestrained affection, which quickly drew Lexa in and kept her close—is quieted in the moments just before she is undone. It feels like a sacred breath of time in which Lexa gets to hold this small, vulnerable portion of Clarke, like she is allowing Lexa to see a careful reduction of herself. 

With her weight propped on one hand, Lexa watches Clarke’s head craned back into the pillow with eyes clenched tight. She can feel Clarke pulsating around her fingers as her hips ride out the waves of her orgasm. Lexa’s hips keep the same tempo while her lips leave gentle presses to Clarke’s neck and shoulder as if to say: _I’m right here, I’ve got you._

“Oh my god,” Clarke says again, exhaled in a release of held air against Lexa’s chest. She sounds calmer now, if not also out-of-breath, as the rhythm between them slows.

Lexa smiles down on her. “Good morning.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”

Their combined laughter fills up the room, and Lexa rests her forehead against Clarke’s. She intends to seal these memories against forgetfulness, preserving small moments like this so that years from now, she will still remember the exact pitch of Clarke’s laughter and the soft slide of her fingers down the arch of her back. 

Once her laughter has died down, Lexa kisses Clarke’s smile. “I like your room.”

She is still half-draped across Clarke’s frame, naked limbs interspersed and hands slowly roaming across sleep-warm skin. 

“That’s good,” Clarke smirks. “I plan to keep you in it pretty often.”

She’s mesmerized by the shade of Clarke’s eyes against her linens and the way her hair, splayed against the pillow, has been illuminated by a late morning sun that bathes them from a stretch of windows along one wall. It is a very good room, made better by the fact that Clarke is presently lying beneath her. 

“I could likely be persuaded to spend more time here.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Clarke grins, kissing Lexa again before pulling away with marked intention. “But, honestly, if we don’t get some food in our systems in the next three minutes, I’m going to waste away, I swear to god.” 

Lexa sits up with laughter, reaching for Clarke’s hands to hoist her up as well so that they are no longer lying down but still sat just as closely. 

She squints one eye and purses her lips in thought as Clarke makes useless attempts to tame her hair. “When you say food, you actually just mean coffee, don’t you?” 

Lexa is delighted to hear Clarke concede almost immediately to her accusation. “Okay, yes, I’m dying for coffee, but _also_ food. Look at these things.” Clarke gestures to her naked chest and Lexa laughs again. She considers admitting to Clarke that she has not stopped looking at them since they were first revealed some ten hours ago. “Do you think these miraculous tits occur naturally? No. They require nutritional upkeep. Regular sustenance. They prefer decadent brunches and gourmet sandwiches, but at this point, they will settle for whatever the hell is in my kitchen at the moment.” 

“Well, when you put it that way,” Lexa smirks. “I had no idea the stakes were so high.” 

“It’s incredibly serious business,” Clarke says, nevertheless grinning as she leans into another kiss. 

Mixed signals continue to fire as the kiss protracts and Clarke’s hands wander towards the swell of Lexa’s ass. “Clarke—”

“Okay, yeah, you’re going to have to put clothes on, or we’re never getting out of this bed.” Clarke shakes her head, closing her eyes and playfully pushing Lexa away before crawling off of the mattress in search of clothes. 

She rifles through drawers and throws random articles of clothing in Lexa’s direction without really looking. Lexa catches one in the face while the other lands off the far end of the bed. 

“Thanks?” she laughs. 

“I have to pee.” Clarke stands with one hand on her hip and the other holding clothing for herself, and Lexa’s eyes practically glaze over because she doesn’t even know where to look. “And, I wasn’t really expecting, um, _that_ to happen just now so please don’t think I’m not fully intending to give you, like, fourteen hundred orgasms in return today, I just _really_ need food first.” 

“Clarke, it’s fine,” Lexa laughs. “I’m not keeping score or anything.”

It’s only a partial lie as Lexa registers the way her skin is still tingling and a dulled throb wanes between her legs from having seen, and heard, and _felt_ Clarke’s orgasm. 

“I know, I know.” Clarke shakes her head, familiarly flustered. “But, I do plan to return the favor. Preferably multiple times.”

“Fourteen hundred, was it?” 

“Yes. At least,” Clarke smirks. “Now, _please_ for the love of coffee, be dressed when I get back.” 

Lexa grins at Clarke’s figure as she rushes for the en suite with her own set of clothes. The tee shirt in her lap is soft and comforting as she runs the well-worn cotton between her fingertips. She slips it over her head after a moment and inhales the subtle fragrance of Clarke’s floral detergent. The sweatpants she then retrieves and slides long legs into before settling again on the edge of the mattress and running fingers through her unruly curls. 

For a few breaths, she is calm and still. She wants to anchor herself in this moment. There will never be another one quite like it. She and Clarke took their time getting here, and Lexa intends to saturate her memories with every detail as the day unfolds. At times, the waiting felt torturous, but the arrival to this place—Clarke’s room, Clarke’s bed, Clarke’s clothes, Clarke’s smile as she exits the bathroom, looking as if she hardly believes Lexa is sat there waiting for her—has been more than worth the wait. 

:::


	10. Lil’ Heaven: Two Roads Brewing (Stratford, CT)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: essentially, we're just picking up where chapter 9 left off ... 
> 
> Beer: Made with three exotic hops - Azacca, Mosaic and Equinox. Taste is of tropical fruits, specifically passion fruit, grapefruit and apricots. Finishes with just enough toasted malt character to balance.
> 
>   
> ABV 4.8%

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally told my wife of the idea for this series, she immediately suggested an entire rewrite of 'a pleasant undoing' but told from Lexa's perspective. So I'm counting chapters 9 and 10 as honoring her wishes. The continuation of this series will reprise our almost strictly Lincoln + Lexa formula, but I'm not naive enough to think that at least 99% of you weren't going into this also hoping for premium Clarke + Lexa content. (Forgive me for the deviation ... and the smut)

Lil’ Heaven: Two Roads Brewing ( _Stratford, CT_ )

:::

“Hey, don’t I know you?”

“I saw you two days ago.” Lexa affectionately rolls her eyes, nevertheless smiling while accepting an exaggerated hug from Lincoln as if they are reuniting after a long separation. 

“Work doesn’t count. You’ve been completely off the radar for a week, socially speaking.” 

They’ve met for an impromptu breakfast at a local diner not far from Lexa’s apartment. She’s back in her neighborhood for practicality reasons, having left the idyllic bubble of Clarke’s bedroom in order to do some loads of laundry. But, it’s also a nice excuse to see her friend. 

Lincoln has already procured them steaming cups of coffee and a pair of red vinyl stools at the breakfast counter that faces the busy griddle top. He is grinning at her as they sit, awaiting her response. 

“I’ve just been … busy,” she says, not even able to curb the bashful smile that follows as she removes her coat and hat.

Lexa pretends not to blush, knowing full well her time spent with Clarke has superseded any other social obligations as they have begun a long overdue exploration of new and exciting facets of their relationship. 

Namely sex. A good portion of her week has, in fact, been absorbed by unspeakably good sex. 

“Uh-huh,” Lincoln laughs warmly. “I wasn’t even sure you two had remembered how to physically separate at this point. Thought maybe Clarke would be joining us as well based solely on the fact that you two haven’t surfaced for anything other than work responsibilities in a full week.” 

Lexa sips her coffee through a growing grin to prolong any acknowledgement of Lincoln’s playful accusation. 

“Morning, hon’.” A familiar waitress says in passing, leaving two menus beside Lincoln’s coffee cup. “Let me know when you’re ready to order.” 

“Thanks, Helen,” Lexa smiles. It’s not often that she indulges in big breakfast meals, preferring her protein smoothies or avocado toast, but Lexa has nevertheless fallen into a routine of frequenting the diner as a way of establishing new roots. 

In her old Brooklyn borough it had been the Chilo’s taco bar where she and Anya would meet every Friday to decompress from the work week over carnitas tacos and cheap beer. In her new portside life in Massachusetts, it’s Angie’s Diner. The coffee is palatable, at best, but the atmosphere is welcoming and Lexa has always enjoyed seeing familiar faces when forced to dine alone. Helen’s gruff, New England endearments in a seasoned, smoker’s voice, have consistently been a comforting presence. 

When the woman shuffles off to tend to the other, early morning diners, Lexa turns to see Lincoln still watching her expectantly. “Clarke had some tasks at Dockside to attend to, and I really need clean clothes.” 

“And, you’re functioning okay in her absence? Breathing okay and everything?” 

Lexa laughs at his continued teasing, but easily concedes to an honest answer. So much uninterrupted time spent in Clarke’s company, sharing the myriad truths about their feelings, has apparently begun to bleed into her other relationships as well. 

Lexa has almost always been able to leave herself unguarded in Lincoln’s presence anyway. 

“I’m probably more dysfunctional when she’s around, actually.” 

Lincoln stifles a laugh around a sip of his coffee. “That sounds like a fair assessment. Everything’s going as well as expected then?”

“Yeah, it’s—” Lexa tries, and instantly fails, not to picture Clarke lathered and laughing in the shower while Lexa fights to stand beneath the warm, steaming spray; Clarke pressing her against the kitchen countertops with hands roaming while the coffee steeps; Clarke cuddling into her on the sofa with the lights dim and the TV volume low “—it’s been really good.” 

“Oh no.”

“What?” Lexa smiles unsurely, eyes widening at Lincoln’s grave expression.

“What’s with the hesitation?”

“What hesitation? I did not hesitate.” 

“I know that hesitation.” Lincoln narrows his gaze at her, dark eyes assessing for signs of Lexa’s concession. “What are you in your head about now?” 

She really needs to stop associating with people who can read her like a book. 

“Okay, fine,” Lexa exhales. She flips open the worn menu, its once glossy, laminate pages now dulled from years of loyal patronage. “I’m just adjusting to the intensity of it all.” 

“You’ve made a major life change. Totally normal to feel overwhelmed,” Lincoln shrugs. 

“I know. You’re right. I haven’t even slept at my apartment in almost a week.”

“And, this is somehow a bad thing?” Lincoln laughs. 

“No, I have absolutely zero complaints,” Lexa clarifies. “But, we’re spending literally all of our free time together—and portions of our work days, too.” 

Lincoln chuckles after another sip of coffee. “Also totally normal. In the beginning, Octavia used to impose all of these ridiculous sleepover schedules—like, spending three nights a week together is the _maximum_ , or whatever—only to completely abandon her own, dumb rule and would end up sleeping at mine for weeks at a time.” Lincoln thinks better of it a second later and warns, “Don’t ever tell her I told you that.” 

The legitimate fear she can see in his eyes makes her laugh, and suddenly she doesn’t feel quite so overwhelmed. “I’ve always considered it wise not to let on that I know just how obsessed Octavia is with you.” 

“Smart woman,” Lincoln winks. “So, other than acclimating to new sleeping arrangements, what is it that’s stressing you out? You think you’re spending too much time together?” 

“That’s the thing—I _like_ being able to be with Clarke as much as possible. This past week, spending time with her, I’ve felt calmer and happier and more settled than I have in ages.”

Lincoln smiles so warmly, Lexa can feel it in her chest. “Don’t you think Clarke feels exactly the same way?”

“I’m pretty confident that Clarke enjoys having me around, yes. It’s not like she’s trying to kick me out of her house or anything yet.” 

“But?” 

“But, I keep wondering what the long-term implications are. Because the way that everything is changing between us: it feels … _significant_.” 

“Yeah. That’s because you’re in l—”

Lexa looks away with a groan that drowns out the rest of Lincoln’s statement, rubbing a hand against her forehead. “Oh my god, please stop saying that.” 

“Okay, okay,” Lincoln laughs. And then, after a moment while clearing his throat, he not-so-subtly reiterates: “But, you are.” 

Lexa studiously ignores any truth in Lincoln’s playful accusation and further expounds, “I guess if anything is stressing me out, it’s not knowing if Clarke is experiencing something similar to what I am right now.”

“Knowing Clarke like I do, and having had the pleasure of a front row seat to all of this from day one, I can confidently assure you that she is right there with you. That being said, have you ever considered—I don’t know—asking her yourself instead of sitting here having a hypothetical conversation about it with me?” 

“I do plan to speak with her about this,” Lexa assures an openly skeptical Lincoln. “I _do_.”

“I mean, you’re in the first week of a new relationship, Lex. I get it. That is usually not time that’s predominantly spent _talking_.” 

Lexa is saved from her sudden flush of embarrassment by the return of their waitress, Helen, who kindly disregards the red tint on Lexa’s cheeks as she orders her scrambled eggs and rye toast. 

“The point is,” Lincoln continues once their orders have been placed, “you guys have this really solid and established friendship going into this thing. In my experience, that can sort of push you ahead at a faster clip than you’re probably accustomed to in relationships.” He drains his coffee, placing it back onto the counter with a dull clink. “So, what would make you feel better about the rate at which you and Clarke are headed?”

Lincoln has a uniquely comforting way of simplifying Lexa’s life. He’s so genuine and forthcoming, and she could hug him again for all his supportive logic. Instead, she takes a deep breath to clear her head and pledges to hug him later. 

“I want to be up front with her about where I see this going, to determine whether or not she and I are on the same page. I want her to know that I’m—”

“—in love with her?” Lincoln grins. 

Lexa punches him, with unintentional force, and regrets it only when Helen—a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper curls and kind eyes—glances at them in mild concern as she refills their coffee. “I would ask if he’s bothering you, hon’, but I have a feeling you’re more than capable of handling yourself.” 

“Don’t worry, I deserved that,” Lincoln assures their waitress, laughing at Lexa’s menacing scowl while rubbing his arm. 

“I was going to say, I want Clarke to know that I’m not interested in dating anyone else.” 

“Oh, right, right,” Lincoln nods, still smiling. “See, I just keep forgetting you two haven’t already been dating exclusively for, like, six months.” 

“Why do I hang out with you again?” 

For all her feigned exasperation, she is instantly wrapped up in an embrace, not unlike an older brother might lovingly harass his younger sibling. “Because you _love_ me.” He pulls her in closely for a monstrous hug—right there at the diner counter—despite Lexa’s sharp elbow to his abdomen as she playfully fights against the forced affection. 

:::

Clarke emerges from her silver Saab just as Lexa ambles across the snow-dusted gravel of the marina, icy rocks crunching beneath her boots. Cars are parked at odd, misfitted angles wherever they can find space between the boats set up on large blocks in their bright white winter wrappings. Clarke is wearing her plaid scarf and bulky winter parka, and Lexa’s chest tightens with equal amounts of excitement and trepidation at seeing her again after a short span apart. 

“You should have let me pick you up,” Clarke says by way of a greeting. 

“It’s not a bad walk from my apartment.” 

Their breaths dissipate in the air between them after briefly appearing in frozen clouds. Lexa can feel her teeth about to chatter because the air on the water is properly freezing, but she attributes the chill along her spine to the nervous energy of being near Clarke. 

Clarke’s gaze narrows in judgement. “Stubborn.” 

“Those in glass houses,” Lexa counters, arching her brow in a way that brings that pleasant tint of blush to Clarke’s cheeks. 

It could very well be the wind; except Lexa knows that it isn’t. 

“Okay can we further reprimand each other once we’re inside where it’s _warm_?”

Clarke’s gloved hand wraps around her coat sleeve and tugs until they are both headed towards the blue front door of the coffee shop. A welcomed gush of warm air envelopes them instantly, and Lexa’s skin begins to tingle where the harsh winds had chilled her face. There isn’t much of a line, nor is the shop crowded with other people. The moderately-sized open room is sparse with patrons, enjoying their steaming drinks under natural lighting and softly playing music. 

It’s been six days—not that Lexa has been meticulously keeping track, but it’s been _six days_ —of near-constant kissing and unrestrained touch; of perpetual orgasms and an intentionally precise exploration of Clarke’s body; of general sensory overload when it comes to redefining her relationship with her best friend. Hardly a week has transpired since they began testing the waters of this mutual attraction, which has nevertheless consumed Lexa entirely. 

Maybe it’s only been six days, an insignificant length of time under normal circumstances, but it feels much more weighted than that. 

Between the kissing and the touching and the orgasms, never mind the sudden influx of unveiled honesty, she can hardly keep her head above water. Her mind hasn’t stopped spinning since that first kiss on Clarke’s doorstep, and she’s only slightly concerned with contracting vertigo if they don’t stop and address what is happening between them sooner rather than later. Lexa needs to sit in a familiar, public space in the light of day with her best friend to discuss the implications on their relationship as it progresses at full tilt. 

Lincoln’s advice rings in her ears as they enter the shop: _just talk to Clarke._

“Hey, strangers!” A barista greets them happily as she and Clarke approach the cash register. Her name slips from Lexa’s memory, but Clarke returns her greeting for them both. 

“Hey, Morgan.”

“Oh my god, I thought you two got lost at sea or something. We haven’t seen you in ages.” Morgan is young, perhaps just out of college, with bright pink hair and a septum piercing. 

Clarke’s head shifts so that she can give Lexa a strange look, which Lexa promptly returns before offering a brief smile. “Oh, um, yeah. Just busy during the holidays,” Clarke answers. 

Lexa gives her order and Clarke pays, brushing off Lexa’s insistence on paying her share. In seven months, if she’s learned anything, it is not to question Clarke’s generosity. They move to a deserted sofa beside an old wood stove fireplace to wait for their drinks and begin removing their coats and hats. Lexa’s toes begin to tingle and thaw within her leather boots as the heat from the fire permeates. 

The harborside shop is the same as always: natural light streaming through the windows facing the water; a smattering of locally produced art hanging on brightly colored walls; and, a handful of other patrons sitting in mismatched furniture with computers or paperbacks. Everything is the same, except for her and Clarke. 

They sit closely, quickly finding small, innocuous points of contact. Clarke tucks into one end of the sofa so that her knees rest gently against Lexa’s legs. Their hands seek touch as the barista delivers their drinks, separating only briefly to accept the steaming mugs and offer their gratitude. Once Morgan leaves them to attend other customers, Lexa falls into the comfort of their secluded, sun-drenched pocket of the shop. 

“It’s so cold outside. I think my feet are still thawing.”

“It feels nice in here,” Lexa responds, smiling because Clarke inches closer to her anyway and she was only outside for under two minutes as it is. 

Lexa senses a buzzing from her coat where it sits beside her and reaches into one of its deep pockets to check her phone. A text from Lincoln confirms their plans to meet up later for drinks. She types a quick, one-handed response before replacing her phone and returning her full attention to Clarke.

“Lincoln,” she explains, although Clarke doesn’t look poised to ask.

“Does he miss you already?”

Lexa laughs, shaking her head. “No, he’s not nearly as codependent as you.” 

Clarke attempts to withdraw her fingers from where they are slotted between Lexa’s, but Lexa tightens her grasp with a widening grin at Clarke’s dropped jaw and feigned affront. 

“Are you still hanging out later?”

“Yeah, he was just confirming the time.” Lexa’s thumb smooths across the back of Clarke’s hand in a slow, repetitive arch. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

Clarke shakes her head firmly. “No, this is your sacred time together—I can’t encroach on that.”

“It’s beers and appetizers, Clarke. I wouldn’t call it _sacred_.” 

Clarke’s eyes widen dramatically. “I’m gonna tell him you said that.”

The empty threat makes Lexa smile again. They’ve always had a particular talent for banter, and the added layer of their recent sexual experiences makes it all the more delightful to trade taunts and harmless barbs. 

“How was your laundry adventure?” Clarke asks while reaching for her coffee, and Lexa smirks.

“Thrilling.”

Despite her instincts to stay within reach of Clarke at all times as much as physically possible, there is also the issue of personal hygiene. In this case, it was Lexa’s growing pile of clothes that needed attending. 

“And breakfast with Lincoln?” 

She can’t tell Clarke how she is actually reconsidering a lifelong friendship with Lincoln because he had spent a majority of the morning brutally teasing her. To reveal that would require Lexa to also elaborate on his specific proclamations about her feelings for Clarke. 

And so, Lexa tells her, “It was good.” 

“You can always do laundry at mine, you know.” 

“Is this just another ploy to keep me tethered to your house for longer intervals?”

An exasperated look flashes across Clarke’s face while she swallows down a mouthful of steaming coffee. “Yes. Have you not been paying attention at all over the past week?” 

Lexa swallows through a grin of her own. There’s really only one, notable thing they’ve been engaged in over the past week, and to think of it now has Lexa’s face warming as she becomes acutely aware of Clarke’s proximity in a public space. 

“I’ve been a little preoccupied lately.” 

Light laughter escapes her as Lexa’s right hand fiddles the ribbing of Clarke’s sweater between her fingers. She is dressed in something off-white and oversized that cuts at a low vee below her neck so that Lexa’s eyes begin to wander to its shadowed opening. It’s a sweater she remembers from the time before—when all of Lexa’s cultivated interest in Clarke (including her wardrobe) was something unspoken and dutifully ignored. 

Lexa remembers that Clarke had been dressed for a dinner at her mother’s house, and Lexa had been granted a chance encounter for quick minutes in which they danced around a thrumming attraction. She can feel it sparking in the air between them now, their pocket of relative privacy threatening to implode from the calculated looks Clarke is giving her. 

“Busy week?” she further teases, eyeing Lexa’s blush over the rim of her coffee mug as she takes another sip. 

Lexa purses her lips and narrows her gaze at Clarke’s self-satisfaction. “Exactly how much joy does it bring you to torture me?” 

“So much,” Clarke laughs. She slips her fingers between Lexa’s so that they are loosely held together. “But, only because you’re _so_ adorable when you’re exasperated.” 

“Flattery is supposed to absolve you?”

“Obviously.” Clarke rolls her eyes, bringing Lexa’s fingers to her mouth and brushing them quickly with a kiss. 

With affections such as this, Lexa would forgive her of almost anything. 

“So,” Clarke says through a sigh while bringing their joined hands to rest again on her knee. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Now that Clarke has given her the floor, Lexa practically swallows her tongue in nervous vacillation. She had strategized a few, well-devised talking points during the process of cleaning her clothes, not to mention procuring some sound advice from Lincoln over breakfast, but sitting here in front of Clarke has made Lexa forget how to string together words and phrases to construct complete thoughts. 

In a desperate attempt to find her resolve, she reaches for the cup of english black tea she’d ordered. Lexa takes her first sip, wishing she’d asked for a pinch more sugar but nevertheless hoping it will soothe her racing thoughts. 

“I just wanted to … check in.” 

_Pathetically underwhelming start._ Lincoln would be so disappointed. She takes another sip that is more like a gulp. 

Clarke nods slowly. “Okay.” 

“About us.”

“Okay,” Clarke repeats, her smile looking apprehensive at best. 

“Our friendship has evolved _significantly_ over the past week, and rapidly, at that. I just thought we should—” Lexa wavers and Clarke comes to her rescue.

“Check in?” 

“Yeah,” Lexa nods.

“Okay. Are you—are you feeling okay about everything?” 

Lexa begins to tangle her fingers around Clarke’s more fervently. “Things with you are almost too good.”

Clarke’s smile changes instantly, full and bright and genuinely pleased. “I feel the same. I’m actually feeling incredibly, fucking lucky, to put a finer point on it.” 

“Good,” Lexa smiles, exhaling a modicum of relief. “I do too.” 

“Oh my god, you had me scared.” Clarke leans back into the couch, dislodging their hands to run her fingers through her hair. “I thought you were going to say you want to date other people or something.” 

“What? No.” Lexa’s breath has been lost to a vacuum of panic so that her ask is hardly audible. “Do you?”

“No! No. I’ve dated, Lexa. I’ve dated _plenty_ ,” Clarke laughs lightly, reaching for a surer hold on Lexa’s fingers. “But, you—I mean, you’re single for the first time in over three years. You must have thought about it.” 

_Not single_ , Lexa says to herself before thinking better of it and rephrasing aloud:

“Clarke, I could date a hundred women and none of them would be you.”

“Yes, I am fairly certain I’ve yet to be cloned.”

“Are you going to stop being a smartass so I can say this?” Lexa smiles in mock irritation. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Clarke pinches her lips together, attentive. “Continue.” 

“What I mean is, no one else would compare. I’ve never met anyone like you—this connection I feel with you, I’ve never experienced anything like it.” Lexa takes a breath, licking her lips before forging onward. “I can’t say where this is going, but I can say, unquestionably, that I have no interest in dating anyone else for the foreseeable future.” 

The words leave her in a rush of honesty. It feels like she’s said too much too soon, but Clarke leans forward with a smile and Lexa interprets the gentle press of her lips as having said exactly the right thing. 

“Do you think we can take these drinks to-go and finish this conversation elsewhere?” Clarke’s voice is pitched low and seductive, and Lexa senses a chill tingling at the back of her neck. 

She resolves to stop doubting her honesty, if also to reconsider hanging out with Clarke in public spaces for a while until they can get their rampant sexual urges under control long enough to enjoy a cup of tea. 

“Did you have a specific location in mind?” she grins in response as if the gleam in Clarke’s eyes isn’t a clear enough indication. 

:::

The sex is consistently noteworthy, and Lexa had never really doubted that she and Clarke would be compatible in that way, but so is the intimacy alongside it. Lexa has never before distinguished between the two so markedly. But, with Clarke, the intimacy is so distinct. When she is coming around Clarke’s fingers, letting her watch the strains of pleasure in her face and shoulders, Lexa registers the vulnerability of being caught in Clarke’s gaze as an orgasm ricochets through her. 

Ordinarily, a week into any new relationship and Lexa would still be clinging to well-practiced safeguards. She would be withholding some parts of herself for safekeeping and ultimate preservation should things go sideways. 

But, not with Clarke. 

She likes that Clarke watches her so carefully. The way that she feels when held by Clarke’s gaze is a kind of certain safety that Lexa hasn’t known before. She kisses Clarke fully, holding nothing back as the pulsating aftershocks of her orgasm begin to ebb. When Clarke slowly removes her fingers, Lexa bites Clarke’s lip, swallowing the soft moan that follows. 

“Does this mean you want to be exclusive?” Lexa asks, still breathless, when their lips have parted. 

She feels Clarke’s laughter against her face before she’s being kissed again. “Yes, you idiot.” 

“Good. Because I want to take you out.” 

“Tonight?”

“Not tonight. It’s going to require some planning. I’d like it to be a proper date.” 

Clarke’s elation is instantly visible. “Okay. I’m going to be honest, I’m highly intrigued to find out what a _proper_ Lexa date looks like.” 

Lexa kisses her again and considers, not for the first time, if she’ll be able to stop now that she’s started. Clarke’s warm tongue and soft lips are now vital to Lexa’s existence. She craves the sensation of their mouths sliding together at random intervals throughout her days. 

“Kissing you has not been a disappointment,” she says, bringing more of Clarke’s bright laughter as they shift their limbs to reposition against the mattress.

Clarke’s leg wraps around her waist as Lexa brushes stray hair from Clarke’s face where they now lay facing side-by-side. “Oh, my god, I’ll second that. I _knew_ you would be a good kisser.”

“Did you?” Lexa smiles at the confession. She likes that Clarke had thought of her in similar ways. She had not been the only one lost in questionably scandalous daydreams over the course of their friendship. 

“Yes. I may have thought about it, once or twice.” 

“I had a pretty good feeling about your talents as well.” 

It’s such a simple, shared admission that nevertheless makes Lexa’s heart trip in its rhythm. “And now, I think about it constantly.”

For that, she is rewarded with another press of Clarke’s lips. “Me too. I’m pretty sure I’m regressing into a terrible excuse for a restaurant manager as a result of constant distraction.” 

“And the bar for your professionalism was already set so low as it is.” 

“ _Hey_!” For that she gets a finger plunged sharply between her ribs, and Lexa squirms away from Clarke’s violent tickling. 

“I’m kidding. You are an elite and respected paragon of your field.” 

“You’re damn right I am,” Clarke affirms with pride. 

“Honestly, I was so lost in thought the other day, I dropped a six pack on my foot.”

“Lexa!” Clarke laughs, kissing Lexa again anyway. “Oh no.”

“No permanent damage,” Lexa smiles. “Can I tell you what else I really like?”

Clarke could not look more delighted. “Yes, please.”

“I really like your sweater.” 

“Wait—which sweater?”

Lexa props up onto an elbow, separating their warm skin as she casts her eyes around the room before locating the sweater in question. It sits near the foot of the bed where it had been discarded moments before. “That one,” she says. “The one you were wearing earlier. It looks really good on you.” 

Clarke seems both surprised and amused by the compliment. “Come here.” 

Lexa allows herself to be pulled closer when Clarke wraps both hands around the back of her neck and their limbs slot back into place. They kiss lazily as if time doesn’t exist while Lexa’s hands begin to drift along the pathways she has started to chart across Clarke’s skin.

“I like seeing you in such a good mood,” Clarke eventually tells her. 

“The effect of mid-afternoon orgasms cannot be underrated.” The frank sentiment makes Clarke laugh again as she rests their foreheads together and begins smoothing over Lexa’s skin with the tips of her fingers. “Also, I like being able to tell you things—things I wouldn’t have been able to say before.”

“I like when you tell me things.” Clarke tucks a strand of loose curls around Lexa’s ear. “Anything else in that busy head of yours you feel like sharing?”

Three words ring prominently in Lexa’s ears, and she fully blames Lincoln’s stupid taunting for the sentiment being at the forefront of her mind. It has nothing to do with the soft, swirling blue of Clarke’s eyes, or the subtle tilt of her mouth, or the fact that Lexa has memorized the sound of Clarke’s laugh. She swallows roughly and presses her lips to Clarke’s, sealing the unspoken words between them for good measure. 

She instead tells Clarke a different truth, “I’m feeling much better since we talked.” 

“I’m glad,” Clarke smiles. “I feel better, too.” She runs a hand down Lexa’s arm, finding her fingers. 

“I was sort of anxious to say anything,” Lexa admits, feeling brave while cocooned in Clarke’s bed despite her earlier insecurities. She had worried, yet again, about saying too much. There was always the risk of Clarke pulling away if Lexa revealed too much. “I spent at least two days debating with myself.” 

Clarke’s exaggerated surprise results in Lexa’s quiet giggles. “ _No_ , you did? You tortured yourself for days with unnecessary internal debates? That is _highly_ out-of-character, Lexa.”

“You really are a lot more like Lincoln than I ever realized.” 

Clarke’s laughter somehow brings them closer together, and Lexa shifts her legs where they are staggered between Clarke’s. “I’ll take that as a compliment. And, I’m glad you finally talked to me about this. I mean, I wasn’t totally expecting you to propose in the way that you did, but—” 

“ _Clarke._ ” Lexa buries her face into the pillow and clenches her eyes to stave off her creeping mortification. So much for embracing her honesty. 

Of course, Clarke is endlessly humored by watching Lexa suffer and only continues her assault on Lexa’s heartfelt admission. “I mean, correct me if I’m misquoting, but you said: ‘ _for the foreseeable future_ ,’ which basically translates into asking me to date you, but like, _forever_.” 

“Oh my god,” Lexa mumbles, her face still pressed into the soft cotton of Clarke’s pillowcase. 

Clarke is not deterred by Lexa’s mounting humiliation, pressing kisses full of laughter into her neck and shoulder until Lexa finally turns to face her. Using the leverage of her leg wrapped around Lexa’s hips, Clarke has since wrestled her onto her back. 

“See?” she says, running an index finger down the slope of Lexa’s nose and effectively smoothing the furrow of embarrassment between her eyebrows. “So adorable.” 

It’s hard to keep hold of her ire when Clarke is naked above her and straddling her hips. Perhaps Clarke knows this as well because even as she shifts imperceptibly, Lexa feels it straight through her core. Her hands come to rest on the tops of Clarke’s thighs, and though she senses a residual scowl tugging at her lips, most of her regret for being too honest has faded. 

“I’m sorry for making fun,” Clarke says while her thumbs rub circular patterns on Lexa’s ribs. 

Lexa has never seen anyone look less apologetic in her life. “I would be more inclined to believe you if you weren’t actively trying not to laugh.” 

“No, no, I’m serious,” Clarke reiterates, although she is fully laughing now. She clears her throat, aiming valiantly for composure. “What you said was so sweet, and, I mean, in case you couldn’t tell, I sort of plan on dating you for a really long time, too.” 

Lexa fights her own smile rather poorly. “Well, that’s very convenient.” 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Clarke nods. 

It’s the perfect segue into more unrestrained fondling, more languid kisses, and Clarke seems to be on the same wavelength as she leans her weight onto her hands and begins to roll her hips. It’s easier falling into this rhythm when for six days they have perpetually cycled the same routine: intimate talks bookended by multiple orgasms that are interspersed with brief intervals reserved for sleep and nourishment. 

Lexa gasps into their first kiss from their well-timed movements—the feeling of them sliding together in that way has a heated sensation building quick and low. Just the pressure of Clarke on top of her and the way her slow, purposed movements are hitting Lexa in the all the right spots, has her close to a second orgasm in minutes.

She can hear Clarke’s breathing accelerate as well, the forced puffs of air through her nose that Lexa feels against her cheeks as their kisses grow more urgent. Clarke’s hand moves first, skating down Lexa’s abdomen as she lifts her hips to slide her fingers towards Lexa’s clit. It’s been no more than twenty minutes since her last orgasm, but Lexa’s body instantly responds to the circulating pressure of Clarke’s fingers moving against her. 

They are still figuring things out, learning how the other responds to physical arousal, but this—Clarke on top of her, easily working her towards climax with deft fingers and filthy, open-mouth kisses—will do the trick every, single time. Lexa could probably come with much less stimulation at this point, when brushing touches while fully clothed are sometimes too much for her to function. Never mind the visual currently hovering over her—Clarke’s bouncing chest, grinding hips, and blown pupils. An image of her fingers sunk into Clarke in this position is enough to send Lexa over the edge. Her back arches off the mattress as the orgasm rolls up her spine, and Lexa catches her breath only after Clarke starts kissing her again. 

A familiar dilemma has Lexa torn between using her hands or her mouth as the tingling sensations of her own orgasm have barely begun to fade. In the end, her urgency to feel Clarke’s arousal, and see it to completion, has Lexa moving a hand between their bodies to slide eager fingers into Clarke’s folds. There will always be time later to bury her face between Clarke’s legs. 

Her breath always stutters at that first touch—it’s slick and warm and Clarke groans appreciatively when Lexa extends two fingers just as Clarke sinks onto Lexa’s hand. That she is open and intimate with Clarke in a way she never thought possible has not fully registered as her new reality, and for a brief second, Lexa’s mind goes blank. 

In another breath, Lexa shifts, guiding Clarke to change her position just enough that she can take one of Clarke’s nipples into her mouth. The quick suction and slow laps of her tongue produce a groan from Clarke that Lexa will be thinking about days later. 

“Fuck, Lexa,” Clarke pants, her hips now thrusting quicker against Lexa’s hand, pressing harder against her fingers as they slide in an out. 

Clarke’s arms shift, palms flat against the mattress on either side of Lexa’s head where she is still holding her weight. 

“Are your arms getting tired? Do you want to switch positions?” Lexa absently moves her hand that had been massaging one of Clarke’s breasts to lightly hold her bicep. 

“No.” Clarke smiles and kisses her softly, in direct contrast to the way she is currently riding Lexa’s fingers. “You’re very sweet, but I’m good.” 

“Okay, good. Because I’m really appreciating this view,” Lexa grins, moving her hand again to swipe a thumb across Clarke’s nipple. 

“Do you think you can—”

She doesn’t let Clarke finish, relying instead on her still-developing intuitions, and takes the other nipple into her mouth. 

“Yes, _fuck._ ” 

Lexa celebrates her victory of predicting Clarke’s needs by altering the position of her hand to reach Clarke’s clit with her thumb, the result of which has Clarke nearly collapsing onto her as her elbows buckle and her hips jerk forward. Lexa finds a well-practiced rhythm after that and works Clarke all the way to climax until the movement of her hips becomes erratic and she is no longer able to string together coherent profanity. 

The comedown is soft and fun, quiet giggles and breathless kisses. Clarke collapses onto the mattress beside her, arms and legs finally relieved of their tension, and Lexa curls onto her side so that she can rest a hand onto Clarke’s stomach where she lies flat on her back. 

Lexa is so content, she feels like her body might levitate in a boneless mass above the bed. Clarke’s breathing is still coming to rest, and Lexa watches her hand rise and fall with each inhale and exhale. 

Into the greying stillness of the bedroom, Clarke asks, “Hey, what time are you supposed to meet Lincoln?” 

The serenity Lexa had felt shatters in an instant. “Oh _shit_!” She flails about for a moment in search of her phone, having completely forgotten about her plans. “What time is it?”

She locates her phone before Clarke can answer. It’s already half past three, and Lexa’s stomach plummets. The text from Lincoln says: _where you at?_

“Are you late?” Clarke has come to sit behind her where Lexa’s legs hang off the mattress near the bedside table where she’d found her phone. Lexa feels soft kisses against her shoulder blade. “What did he say?” 

Below Lincoln’s text is a picture of two full pints of beer sitting on a bar counter. She holds her phone at an angle so that Clarke can see Lincoln’s texts. 

Lexa runs a hand through her hair as her heart hammers from the sudden jolt of adrenaline. “Shit.” 

More than the shame of accidentally standing up one of her closest friends, Lexa dreads the fallout of this enormous misstep because Lincoln is _never_ going to let her live this down. Worse yet, there is a good chance that he’ll share the story with Anya, which will mean, essentially, Lexa can never again return home. 

“Why don’t you get dressed and go? I can drop you off,” Clarke offers sweetly, still pressing reassuring kisses along her back. 

“I’m going to ask him if we can reschedule,” Lexa decides. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Lexa answers, turning her head to smile at Clarke over her shoulder. “I don’t really feel like putting on pants at the moment.” 

Clarke kisses her shoulder cap and grins in return. “You’ll get no argument from me there.” 

“Let me give him a call really quickly.” Lexa reaches for a shirt on the floor—something of Clarke’s she’d worn to bed the night before—and stands to slip it over her head. Something about calling a close friend while completely naked and still coming down from an orgasm makes her slightly uncomfortable. 

“Take your time,” Clarke tells her, also rising from the unkept sheets and blankets to pull her hair back into its messy bun. “I’m going to go downstairs and reheat our drinks from earlier.” She tugs at the hem of Lexa’s tee shirt and places a kiss at the corner of her mouth on her way to the bathroom. “Do you want a snack, too?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Lexa grins, following after Clarke’s lips as she starts to move away. A soft hold on her wrist is enough encouragement for Clarke to lean up into another kiss, reminding Lexa just how shaky her legs still feel from their exertions in bed. Perhaps sustenance to replenish her blood sugar is necessary instead of relying solely on a steady drip of oxytocin. 

Lexa appreciates the view of Clarke’s retreating backside even in the fading light of the bedroom as the sun has started to move towards the horizon. She runs a hand through her wild curls and exhales, preparing to make her phone call while perched on the edge of the mattress.

Lincoln answers on the first ring. “Hey, buddy. Did you get lost?”

“Something like that,” Lexa says. “Clarke and I went for coffee, and then I sort of … lost track of time.”

“Say no more,” Lincoln laughs. “It’s your turn to ditch me for a girl now, right? I hope the sex was worth it.” 

The fact that she is wearing nothing more than a thin tee shirt has Lexa covering her face with her hand. “Lincoln, I didn’t—” 

His laughter persists, and Lexa wonders how loud it must be within the confines of the bar. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. It’s totally fine. Honestly, I’d be more upset if you _weren’t_ standing me up for time with Clarke right now.” 

“I’m really sorry, Linc. I can be down there in like fifteen minutes.” 

“Don’t you dare.” For the first time since he’s answered the call, Lincoln’s voice takes on a serious tone. “I swear to god, if you show up here, I’m frogmarching your ass right back to Clarke’s house.” 

“Okay, fine,” Lexa laughs. “Let’s hang out early next week though. Beers on me.” 

“Don’t even worry about it. I’m serious. I actually ran into some people from the gym plus the rep from Two Roads is here doing a tasting—I’m good, I promise.” 

“I’m going to make this up to you,” Lexa reiterates. Despite Lincoln’s assurances, her guilt does not fully dissipate. 

Clarke chooses this moment to step out of the bathroom, wearing just as much clothing as when she’d gone in, and Lexa’s brain lags at the sight. Her expression seems to be asking if everything is okay, and Lexa smiles in response. 

“Lex, would you stop? Tell Clarke I said hi, and I’ll see you at work on Monday. Oh, hey, ask her if she’s tried the new session IPA from Two Roads. It’s intensely enjoyable.” 

“Okay. I will.” She smiles up at Clarke, who has stopped to stand in front of her after slipping into a tee shirt and sweatpants. Lexa’s hand settles on Clarke’s hip like a magnet snapping into place. “Clarke says hi, too.”

“Sorry, Lincoln!” Clarke says, projecting her voice towards the receiver while tucking strands of curls behind Lexa’s ear. “It’s all my fault.” 

There is more laughter down the line before Lincoln reiterates that everything is fine and he could never actually be angry with either of them. 

:::

“So, since when do you source your unhealthy caffeine intake from elsewhere?”

“Huh?” Clarke smiles. 

They’ve taken up seats at Clarke’s kitchen island with their reheated drinks from the coffee shop and Clarke’s version of a snack: smoked turkey and cheddar sandwiches on toasted potato rolls with homemade aioli. 

They’re both wearing slightly altered versions of the same outfit—soft tee shirts and loose sweatpants, Clarke’s cut off into shorts so that Lexa’s fingers are continuously tempted to trail across all of the exposed skin within reach. 

She sips her tea and returns Clarke’s smile. 

“The barista at the coffee shop seemed shocked to see you,” she clarifies. “Don’t you practically pay rent there by spending so much of your time buying their coffee?” 

For a brief moment, Clarke can’t seem to find her voice. She practically chokes on her sandwich, taking longer than expected to swallow her first bite. Lexa raises an eyebrow expectantly as their drinks emit swirling strands of steam into the air between them. 

“I—I could ask you the same,” Clarke volleys back, not unkindly, as she dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin and reaches for her coffee. “Morgan seemed just as surprised to see you there.” 

Lexa bites her lip and looks away _._ She had asked out of genuine curiosity and confusion, and now it seems yet another bout of confessions is forthcoming. 

She clears her throat. “Do you have any beer, actually?” 

Clarke laughs lightly before shifting her expression into something like mild offense. 

“Um, hi. My entire existence is practically centered around craft beer—do you even know me?” 

“Right,” Lexa laughs. “Stupid question. Would you like one?”

“Again: do you even know me?”

Lexa starts to slide off her stool with a bright smile that belies the low buzz of nerves she is withstanding as an unspoken conversation simmers between them. Clarke is dislodging their legs from where they had sat in a close tangle at the island. “Stay,” she directs her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll get them.” 

Once Lexa has pulled open the fridge door, she turns to look at Clarke over her shoulder. “Do you have a preference? Lincoln was asking if you’d tried the new IPA from Two Roads.” 

“Are you actively avoiding answering my question by distracting me with beer inquiries?” 

Lexa pinches her lips together to ward off a sheepish admission, and Clarke rolls her eyes affectionately. “Look on the left hand side, bottom shelf.” 

Lexa ducks down to retrieve two brightly colored cans of IPA before closing the fridge door and returning to the island. “Not to split hairs, but technically, you avoided my question first.” 

“Okay, fine,” Clarke sighs dramatically. She takes one last dreg from her coffee before shoving it away in favor of the can of beer Lexa has just opened for her. “I was—” Clarke actually ducks her head so that Lexa can see her thick eyelashes fluttering “—I was afraid I would run into you during the, uh, when we—”

“Broke up?” Lexa supplies. She is still holding a small smile for Clarke when blue eyes finally snap up to meet hers. 

It had felt like that. A relationship ending—a significant one at that. And, Lexa had been left broken in the aftermath. 

“I was going to say when we stopped talking,” Clarke continues. “But, it was more than that. It did feel like a break up. And, _we_ didn’t decide anything—I cut communications all on my own.” 

“Clarke—”

“I’m really sorry, Lexa.” 

Lexa is already shaking her head, part disbelief at what she’s hearing, part exasperation that Clarke has mistakenly absorbed all of the blame. 

“Clarke, I know you have this bizarre obsession with always being right, but I can assure you—what happened in November was all on me.”

“I just vanished, Lexa. I didn’t even tell you why or allow you to explain anything.” Clarke’s eyes are downcast and her voice softens in unmistakable regret as she fiddles the silver tab on her beer. “I freaked out and hid away. And, it was really shitty.” 

Lexa can’t help the way her mind creates distinctions between Clarke and Costia—the contrast of Costia’s distance from their relationship to Clarke’s sudden disappearance. With Costia, it had often felt like abandonment and disregard. The space between them had been a disappointment, a mild discomfort that Lexa sustained over time. Losing Clarke—and it had felt like that, as if she turned around one day and panicked to find Clarke had vanished—left her devastated and painfully bereft. 

“Not seeing you was horrible. Not being able to talk to you was even worse. But, I’m glad you stepped back and took that space. It _was_ shitty, but not because you did anything wrong.” 

“I hated not seeing you, too,” Clarke admits, and they share another small smile across the kitchen island, tinged with a distant, remembered sadness. 

“I couldn’t avoid Dockside, contractually, but I—I didn’t want to encroach upon your other spaces.”

“So, you stopped going to the coffee shop.” 

Lexa confirms with a short nod and takes the first sip of her beer. She’s glad they’ve had this talk, but she’s also more than eager to segue out of November’s gloom that is better left in the past. She takes a cleansing breath and sets down her beer. 

“In the end, I was glad you created that barrier between us, Clarke. I was miserable, and Lincoln will tell you that I was insufferable to be around, but it made me realize what a massive idiot I’d been.” 

Her admission elicits an actual laugh, and Clarke shakes her head fondly. “So much for that Ivy League education.” 

There’s a lot more that could be said, and it’s a much longer conversation that they will likely parse out at some point. But, today has been exceptionally good, and Lexa isn’t quite ready to lose the momentum of their good moods. Even for the sake of honesty.

“I’m a slow learner,” Lexa shrugs.

“Based on the activities that occurred in my bedroom this afternoon, I can attest to that being _entirely_ untrue,” Clarke says, voice pitched low and taunting. 

At the return of Clarke’s brazen flirting and sly smile, Lexa ducks her head as her cheeks warm. Because, despite the fact that they have spent a good portion of the afternoon swapping orgasms, she still sees Clarke as her best friend, in many ways, who she has only recently had the distinct pleasure of seeing naked. 

“I’m sort of a quick study in that department,” Lexa smirks. 

“I’ve noticed,” Clarke laughs. They sip their beers in weighted silence for a few beats, sharing glances as they drink, and then Clarke adds to the mounting tension by asking, “So, when do I get to hear more about this date?” 

“The details of the date itself are highly classified,” Lexa explains in all seriousness, despite her stomach swooping. 

“Classified, huh?” Clarke laughs into another sip of beer. 

“Do I honestly strike you as someone who is going to halfass a first date?” 

“You don’t strike me as a person who has halfassed anything in their entire life.” 

“Correct,” Lexa smiles. She shifts smoothly along the island’s edge until she is again stood on the same side as Clarke, who accepts Lexa’s proximity with a slow-spreading smile. “You know, I could potentially be persuaded to provide a sneak peek of some _post_ -date activities,” she offers, already moving to enter Clarke’s space more fully as their drinks are gingerly slid a good distance away. 

She slowly spins Clarke’s stool just enough that she can slot between her legs, and Clarke is already leaning into the touch as Lexa’s hands curve around her jaw. The kiss is like regaining breath after being submerged under water. Their conversation on past events hadn’t been strenuous, by any means, but Lexa registers a sense of relief to have resumed their previous activities all the same. 

She sinks into the warmth of Clarke’s lips and tongue, exhaling after several, languid moments. When her hands move to slide up the length of Clarke’s thighs, eliciting a distinctly strained exhale as Lexa teases her fingers beneath the cut-off edge of Clarke’s shorts, it’s abundantly clear where they’re both headed. 

They make it as far as the sofa. 

Lexa can’t be bothered to maneuver the stairs when there are so many other available surfaces on which to make Clarke slowly shake apart. She does so on her knees while making good on her earlier intents to spend a long stretch of time between Clarke’s legs. The last shards of sunlight are nearly gone, leaving them in golden shadows and dim light from the kitchen while Clarke moans soft encouragements and cards her fingers through Lexa’s hair. There is no rush, no urgency, hardly a sense of time moving at all. Lexa feels calm and confident, content to bring Clarke closer to release at a measured pace as she begins to gently rock against the pressure of Lexa’s tongue. Everything feels languid and slow, like running through water. 

It’s not lost on her, as Clarke’s orgasm eventually echoes through the quiet house, heels pressing into her back and Clarke’s fingers threaded into her hair, that this very sofa had been the impetus for their time apart. The innocence of that encounter, as she and Clarke gave in to the comforts of shared sleep, had propelled them toward a shift in their relationship. Looking back, everything that has transpired between them since that singular event seems inevitable. 

Falling asleep with Clarke that first time had been rife with implications that they would eventually end up right back here: a cozy, nondescript, weekend night spent on Clarke’s couch with nowhere to go. 

The insignificance of an otherwise mundane Saturday is outweighed by the way Lexa’s mouth curves into an easy smile as she kisses the warm skin of Clarke’s inner thigh. Clarke is coming down from the aftershocks of a slow-rolling orgasm when Lexa registers a sharp uptick in her heart rate as they lock eyes while Clarke is still catching her breath.

And, this too holds weight—for all their recent honesty, there are still things Lexa has left unsaid.

“Get up here,” Clarke gently demands. Lexa complies without pause. 

Clarke’s sated and satisfied groans melt into scratched laughter that dovetails with their kiss, and the magnitude of what Lexa feels is underscored as their mouths meet. 

“I’m going to be honest with you,” Clarke tells her some breath of time later, when Lexa has moved from the floor to the sofa at Clarke’s urging. “If this type of activity is in the cards for date night, I don’t really give a shit what the actual date itself looks like.” 

They lay along the length of the sofa, limbs over lapping at certain intervals, and Lexa’s hand flat against Clarke’s stomach beneath her tee shirt. 

“Good to know I can scale back my efforts,” Lexa smirks, feeling no less satisfied that she has reduced Clarke’s expectations with one, albeit exemplary, late-afternoon orgasm. 

Clarke’s laughter echoes Lexa’s contentment, and her smile grows. She can feel the subtle shaking of Clarke’s diaphragm beneath her fingertips. 

“This has been such a good day,” Clarke says, adding further reinforcement to Lexa’s equally satisfied mood. “I really like having your here. Have I mentioned that?”

Lexa grins into Clarke’s close gaze and presses her lips to the edges of Clarke’s smile. “Once or twice.” 

“Lincoln is the kindest, most-deserving creature on the planet, but I’m really glad you stayed here instead. Just this once.” 

Lexa’s contented smile slips and she nearly groans as her head falls onto the armrest. “I’m never going to hear the end of it.” 

“What do you mean?” Clarke laughs. 

“I pride myself in being reliable—no excuses. If I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there. Especially when it comes to Lincoln or Anya.” Lexa exhales and glances up to find Clarke’s eyes. “The fact that I neglected our plans for—”

“The best sex of your life?” Clarke supplies with swagger. Lexa’s smile returns without her consent. “I mean, you _looked_ like you were about to say: the best sex of your life.” 

As laughter bubbles up from her chest, it vanquishes Lexa’s lingering criticisms about her snap decision to break plans with Lincoln. Clarke’s commentary is a reductive synopsis, at best, but also not entirely untrue. “Yes. Something like that.” 

A beat of silence passes and then Clarke says, “If you’re worried he’s going to give you a hard time about breaking plans, wait until you tell him you proposed.”

She buries her face against Clarke’s shoulder to the delighted rasp of Clarke’s giggling laughter and concludes, yet again, that it is the absolute best sound in the world, even at her own expense. 

:::


	11. La Ferme Urbaine: Foolproof (Pawtucket, RI)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: this is set just before Lincoln and Octavia's wedding, probably in the realm of chapters 11 and 12 of apu, after Clarke has given Lexa a key and asked her to move in (because they are both too gay to function) 
> 
> Beer: La Ferme Urbaine  
> FARMHOUSE ALE
> 
> Influenced by the Belgian saison style, La Ferme Urbaine features a complex blend of German hops, pilsner and pale malts, wheat, rye, oats, and spelt. The beer pours a hazy straw color and delivers a spicy, dry finish.
> 
> ABV 7.8%

La Ferme Urbaine: Foolproof ( _Pawtucket, RI_ ) 

:::

“This is going to require some intense renovations.” Lexa stands with her hands in her front pockets, neck craned towards a dilapidated two-story house on a small corner lot. Its Victorian architecture is nearly eclipsed by peeling paint, broken windows, and a sagging porch, but the way Lincoln’s face beams, it’s as if the house shows no signs of disrepair. “You sure you’re up to task?” 

“Hell, yeah.” Lincoln’s confidence is as strong as the late afternoon sun, glaring in a burning orange glow as it reflects off the windows of the historic city buildings surrounding them. 

He then launches into an animated diatribe of improvements and restoration projects, pacing the perimeter of the property as he gestures to certain aspects of the house with broad hands. He and Octavia have likely discussed these visions of their future home endlessly as they await inspection reports and closing signatures to make everything final. Their initial offer had been accepted almost immediately, and Lexa has to believe it is thanks to, in part (if not entirely), the authenticity of her good friend’s charming demeanor. 

“It’ll be a massive undertaking, but with the right help—”

“You planning to swing a sledge with me during the demo stage?” Lincoln grins.

“God, no.” Lexa nearly shudders. “Though I imagine Clarke might enjoy the destructive release of aggression after some of her more challenging bar shifts.”

Lincoln chuckles and returns to stand by Lexa’s side as they continue to gaze up at the house. “Yeah, Octavia too.” 

“I’m so excited for you.” Lexa smiles up at him, nudging their shoulders together as Lincoln meets her eye with a grin of his own. “About everything.” 

His upcoming nuptials (which have explicitly been banned from being referred to as a _wedding_ ) are less than two months away, and Lincoln hopes to have the keys to their new house in hand before the ceremony. He and Octavia seem happier than ever—real life exemplars of a healthy, supportive relationship between two friends in love. Lexa feels a kindred satisfaction at having found something similar with Clarke. Perhaps no one would have predicted these outcomes, but she and Lincoln have done rather well for a couple of kids who spent years feeling unwanted and unloved. 

“What can I say: I’m living my best life.” 

“Truly,” Lexa laughs, leaning into the nook of Lincoln’s armpit as he wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

Even for early April, the weather has warmed, and the sun hangs in the sky for longer intervals. There’s no longer a bite in the air, even in the cooler, evening temperature. The breezes coming in off of the harbor have a fresh scent, like rejuvenation in the air that will soon breed blossoms on all the trees and fresh shoots of grass beneath their feet. 

Lexa is perfectly comfortable in her jeans and a soft, grey henley layered with a pastel flannel that she has permanently borrowed from Clarke’s side of the closet. A closet that they now share in an official capacity. Lexa’s mouth slopes into a stupid grin at the thought of their now shared space. Her stomach swoops because of the new gold key in her pocket that she can feel between her fingers. 

“I could say the same for you,” Lincoln tells her, somehow reading her thoughts. “You get all your stuff moved in yet?” 

Her breath stutters at the mention of it, at the vision of scattered boxes and her random belongings that have slowly infiltrated Clarke’s space. “My lease isn’t up until the end of the month, so I’ve been moving things gradually.” 

“Not ready to fully commit, huh?” Lincoln jabs with a teasing grin. 

“I feel exceptionally confident about it, thank you very much.” 

“What? Just like that?” Lincoln laughs. “Where is the torturous, internal Lexa struggle? Where are the mountains of anxiety about making the wrong call or moving too fast? Is this what four months as Clarke’s girlfriend has done to you?” 

Lexa shrugs as if her chest hasn’t just snapped like a rubber band at being called Clarke’s girlfriend, a title that still sparks jittery excitement. Particularly when she is still grasping the house key that Clarke has recently given her. “Apparently.” 

“Well, it’s a good look on you.” 

“Thanks.” 

They’ve stopped at the house Lincoln intends to buy with Octavia on their way to food and beer at Dockside, having fallen into the habit of visiting the girls during their longest shift of the week. With the mention of Clarke and the newest development in their relationship, Lexa feels a sudden wave of impatience to continue their walk to the bar where she knows Clarke and Octavia will be waiting to greet them. 

Lincoln releases a long, contented sigh. “Should we head down to see the girls?” 

Lexa exhales in turn and attempts to answer in a measured and completely unhurried manner: “Sure.” 

:::

It’s just shy of six when Lincoln pulls open the front door of Dockside, allowing Lexa to walk through into the familiar establishment. Her eyes perform a practiced scan of the room, but Clarke isn’t immediately visible as she and Lincoln head straight for the half-empty bar counter. 

Octavia is chatting with other customers as Lexa and Lincoln approach, but she winks at Lincoln, her mouth curving just so, mid-conversation, which has him beaming as he slides into a bar stool. 

“That’s my future wife,” he stage whispers, and Lexa can’t help but smile at how ridiculous being in love with Octavia has made him. 

They’d been more than halfway to the bar when Lexa had received an S.O.S from Clarke about caffeine and sudden fatigue and exaggerated pronouncements of loyalty, commitment, and sexual favors if Lexa would bring her coffee. Of course, it strictly goes against her better judgement to enable Clarke’s reliance on caffeine in unhealthy measurements.

Then again, Lexa has lost almost all ability to ever actually tell her no because being in love with Clarke has made her better judgements ridiculously feeble. 

As such, she stands beside Lincoln with a small half-caf drip in a paper cup from Clarke’s favorite roaster, a generous concession without fully giving in to her girlfriend’s unredeemable habit.

“Clarke’s in the back if you want to bring that to her,” Octavia says as she approaches. 

“Oh. Okay.” Lexa starts for the black swinging door of storage before Octavia calls out again.

“Sorry—not the stockroom. The other back.” She’s jutting her thumb over her shoulder when Lexa turns around, indicating the narrow corridor behind the bar counter that leads to Clarke’s office and the back entrance. 

“Oh. Right. Thanks,” Lexa smiles. “I’ll be right back,” she says to Lincoln.

“I’m starting a timer on my phone,” he calls after her. “Just because I’m curious to see how long it takes you to deliver a cup of coffee.” 

She just manages to stop herself from flipping him off before pushing through the door, leaving him with a meaningless scowl. 

:::

Clarke looks up from whatever she’s been working on as Lexa steps into the open doorway with a smile she intends to curb by biting her lower lip. 

“Hey.”

“Oh my god, I can't believe you actually brought me coffee. I love you.” Clarke says it offhand, a bit theatrically even, but Lexa’s stomach flip-flops all the same. 

She enters the office with a slow stride and gently places the paper cup onto Clarke’s desk. “That’s half decaf, by the way.”

Clarke’s face falls as she eyes the beverage with sudden disdain. “Oh my god, I can’t believe we have to break up.”

“Ouch. It’s nice to see you, too.” 

“Get over here.” Clarke has already snared her wrist with a widening smile, pulling at Lexa’s arm so that she is forced to lean across the desk and meet Clarke’s waiting grin. “Hi,” she almost whispers after their lips part. 

“Is this how you typically break up with people? Because it’s actually pretty enjoyable,” Lexa murmurs into the space between their lips. 

“Shut up,” Clarke laughs before they are kissing again, Lexa’s palms flat against the desktop while Clarke’s fingers thread into her hair. 

It’s still a soft greeting and nothing obscene—two people happy to be in the same space again after a short time apart—but Lexa feels the quickening of her pulse all the same. 

“Thank you for my fake coffee.”

“Clarke.”

“ _Lexa_.”

Never before has she felt so unapologetically mocked by a single person yet utterly enamored in spite of it. Lexa pinches her lips together and looks away from Clarke’s teasing smile. 

“I have to get back out there,” she announces, finally pulling back to stand at her full height. “Lincoln thinks he’s being clever by setting a timer for my return.” 

Clarke stands with a laugh. “I’ll come with you. I need a break from these orders anyway.” She holds her _fake_ coffee with one hand and finds Lexa’s fingers with the other. She kisses Lexa’s shoulder cap and regards her fondly. “I’m never getting this shirt back, am I?”

“Especially not now that we’ve broken up.” 

The genuine hurt that immediately darkens Clarke’s eyes coupled with her protruding lower lip stops Lexa from moving towards the office doorway. 

She stills her movements entirely as Clarke says, “I don’t want to joke about breaking up anymore.” 

“It was your joke to begin with,” Lexa softly reminds her, nevertheless smoothing the pad of her thumb over Clarke’s lower lip.

“I know,” Clarke says, frowning still. “It was a stupid joke, and I don’t like to think about it.” 

A soft press of her lips to Clarke’s forehead has her leaning into the touch, releasing Lexa’s fingers to curl an arm around Lexa’s waist. 

“If you think you would be able to get rid of me that easily, Clarke, we might need to revisit some previous conversations about my intentions in being with you.” 

“I seem to recall some _very_ persuasive measures that we engaged in alongside those conversations,” Clarke says, her smile pressing into Lexa’s neck where she has tucked her head beneath Lexa’s chin. 

Lexa hums through a smile of her own. If she didn’t know Clarke so well, it would be easy to mistake her perpetual, single-minded focus on sex as a complete lack of sentimentality. 

But, Lexa isn’t fooled. 

Clarke thrives on crass innuendo and well-meaning objectification (both of herself _and_ Lexa), but she can also be openly sensitive and affectionate. Vulnerable in her need to be near Lexa—to feel safe and connected—as often as possible. 

Lexa can’t say for sure if they will always be so desperate for each other’s company, if small fractions of time spent apart will continue to breed an urgency for reuniting. She has been in enough relationships to know that attachments usually fade and the needs of each person most often change over time. 

Still, something tells her that when it comes to this relationship, Clarke will break the mold of every truth Lexa has previously known. 

“The point is: I’m not going anywhere,” Lexa tells her, and Clarke looks up at her with a renewed smile. “Although, you’re still not getting this shirt back.” 

Clarke kisses the underside of her jaw and tightens the hold she has around her waist. “You can keep all of my shirts as long as I get to keep you.”

“Deal,” Lexa answers, finally leading them out of the office. 

Lincoln will roast her for having taken an exorbitant amount of time to deliver Clarke’s coffee, but having Clarke hugged against her side, Lexa finds she doesn’t exactly care. 

::: 

In an hour’s time Lexa has been fed no less than six times—small plates of food from the kitchen’s rotating menu like an assembly line in front of her and Lincoln—and an empty beer glass is no sooner bussed than another full one appears. As it turns out, dating a bar manager and sustaining a lifelong friendship with her business partner’s fiancé is a pretty good gig for libations and keeping well fed. By 8:00, she’s not necessarily sober, but the continuous parade of appetizers that Octavia and Clarke slide in front of Lexa and Lincoln keep her from tipping over the edge into properly drunk. 

“This one is my favorite.”

“You’ve said that about the last three.”

Lincoln crunches into his charred nopales and street corn tostada as if to be sure. “Nope. This is the one.” 

Lexa smiles around a second bite of her Korean short ribs and savors the balanced marinade—a perfect blend of smoky sweetness and tangy spice. 

She is washing it down with a saison from Rhode Island as Octavia swings out of the kitchen and approaches their end of the bar. 

“How good is that corn?”

“The whole thing is amazing,” Lincoln tells her. 

Octavia swipes an avocado off his plate without hesitation. “What about the Kalbi?” 

It sounds conversational, the way that Octavia, as a friend, is asking Lexa about her meal. But, in spending the past year of her life in proximal relation to her, Lexa has determined that, in some capacity, Octavia is actually always working. 

“These are easily some of the best short ribs I’ve ever had.” 

“Yeah,” Octavia grins. “I’m obsessed with them. Jane has been on staff for less than two months, and she’s already killing it back there.”

“Be sure to extend my compliments to the chef. Beer is incredible, too,” Lexa adds.

“What did Clarke bring you this time? The Foolproof?” 

“Their farmhouse, yeah.” Lexa’s attention is drawn to the kitchen doorway again as Clarke exits carrying plates of food. She doesn’t glance in their direction as she drops the plates farther down the bar, but her smile is warm and bright, and Lexa can’t look away. 

There’s a generous crowd strung along the bar counter, plus a few of the nearby tables that keep rotating with guests who stay for a drink or two before heading off into the night. Clarke is engaging with the three men who have just received their plates of food, and Lexa’s ears attune to the friendly pitch of her voice while Octavia and Lincoln momentarily hold their own conversation. 

Lexa sips her saison and enjoys the way Clarke handles herself in conversation—confident, approachable, friendly, but with a distant professionalism. It’s not until she registers the distinct tone of patriarchal arrogance coming from a few of Clarke’s guests that Lexa realizes Octavia and Lincoln have also clued into the nearby exchange. 

From what Lexa can gather, over the din of other surrounding patrons, the men are attempting to challenge the accuracy of Clarke’s knowledge on one of Dockside’s pours. Clearly first-time patrons, to these men, Clarke is easily mistaken as the beautiful bartender in a nice dress with a friendly demeanor who pours their pints and delivers their food. They would never suspect that she is also the unassuming curator of every beer offered within the establishment and a well-read expert in the field of craft brewing. 

If she didn’t find misogynistic biases against women in male-dominated fields to be nauseatingly unforgivable, Lexa would almost feel bad for what these guys have coming to them. 

“This should be good,” Lincoln mutters with a deviant smile, and Lexa flicks her gaze to find Octavia looking half-amused, half-poised for lethal intervention. 

In short, Clarke absolutely eviscerates the men’s inflated egos by seamlessly rattling off a short history on the brewery in question, explaining their evolution of kettle sours and dry-hopped IPAs with thrilling precision, all while maintaining her hospitable smile. The cohort of sexist men are left silenced and stunned as Clarke moves on to tend to the rest of the bar, leaving their gaping jaws in her wake. 

“What a bunch of fucking morons,” Octavia grumbles with an eye roll just before another table of guests catches her attention and she is pulled away. 

“I love it when she does that,” Lexa says, smiling in Lincoln’s direction. 

“It is really gratifying to watch someone’s fragile masculinity skillfully shattered,” he agrees with a satisfied smile. “I’ll never understand it, that intrinsic need to be an expert on _everything_ , but it’s entertaining as hell to see O and Clarke flex on these random assholes who waltz in here and mistakenly try to out-beer them.” 

Lexa's smile widens as she and Lincoln clink their beer glasses together. “It really is.”

:::

“One strand of lights.”

“No.”

“A single banner. A _classy_ one.” 

“No.”

“Candles. Come on, O, no one can say no to candles.” 

“Watch me.” Octavia, who up until this point had been withholding eye contact, gives Clarke a pointed glare. “ _No_.” 

Lexa smiles at Clarke’s frustrated groan while sipping her glass of water. Three-and-a-half pints of beer and countless plates of food have left her feeling fully satisfied if not also ready for bed. Clarke won’t close the bar for another few hours, and though Lexa acknowledges this is the reality of their chosen professions, she also wishes to steal Clarke away and take her home for a cuddle. 

“Think about Lincoln,” Clarke continues, beating her dead wedding horse, much to Octavia’s dismay. “You’re depriving him of this fanfare, this pizazz, this well-deserved—”

“Don’t drag him into this,” Octavia interjects. 

Clarke’s jaw drops. “He’s literally one half of the reason we’re celebrating! And honestly, with how difficult you’re being about this whole thing, it might be more like 70/30.” 

Octavia rolls her eyes and starts to walk away, busying herself with clearing empty glasses from a table whose guests have just vacated. “When you two leave, will you take her with you?” 

Her voice carries across the now mostly empty bar, and Clarke scowls at Octavia from where Lexa and Lincoln sit at the far end of the counter. They often lay claim to this section of the bar during their Wednesday night visits, and it always feels like a sacred, little huddle. 

“That’s a tempting offer,” Lexa answers as Octavia breezes past them to deposit the empty glasses into her bus tub behind the bar. 

Her comment successfully erases the look on Clarke’s face as their eyes meet, and she watches Clarke’s frown melt into a dopey smile. 

“I’m not leaving you to close by yourself. Stop being so dramatic,” Clarke admonishes, though she is still smiling as her eyes leave Lexa to look over her shoulder at Octavia. 

“I’m not by myself,” Octavia grunts, hoisting her black bin of glassware and dirty plates off a low shelf. “Jane and Murph are in the back. Take the orders home and finish them there. You know the last two hours of the night are the slowest midweek. I’ll be fine.”

“Stop trying to get rid of me just because you’re throwing a fit about candles,” Clarke shouts after her even though Octavia has already pushed through into the kitchen.

Their small end of the bar counter temporarily swells with music blaring from the line cooks and back-of-house staff, a stark contrast to the lo-fi hip hop Clarke has playing on a lower volume in the main room. 

“I should get home either way,” Lexa admits with a short stretch of her arms, pulling taut the muscles of her back. “You fed me too well, and now I’m sleepy.” 

“You’re a grandma every night of the week—in bed before ten or cranky as hell the next day.” 

Lexa furrows her brow at Clarke’s unnecessarily accurate depiction of her sleep routines, but Lincoln laughs openly while nudging her shoulder. 

“This one’s never been able to burn the midnight oil. Needs that beauty rest to maintain her cheerful disposition.” 

“I’m officially breaking up with both of you.”

“ _Hey_.” 

Clarke’s pout is back, the color of her eyes saturated in renewed hurt at Lexa’s bad joke. Three-and-a-half beers have also made her forgetful, apparently. 

“Sorry, sorry.” She reaches for Clarke’s wrists across the glossed wood of the bar and is gently rubbing her thumbs across Clarke’s pulse points when Octavia reemerges. “Just Lincoln then.”

Lincoln offers a good-natured shrug. “That’s fair.” 

“See?” Octavia eyes the affectionate gesture between Clarke and Lexa with a practiced look of exasperation. “You could be doing this loved up shit in the privacy of your own home.”

“Says the one who is about to profess her undying love and commitment _publicly_ in front of all our closest friends,” Clarke argues. 

“I feel like if you keep reminding her, she’s more likely to back out,” Lincoln muses, and Lexa wonders if he is only half kidding. 

Octavia pins him with a look. “Never.” 

It’s a charged moment just for them, despite the fact that Clarke and Lexa are caught in its crosshairs, Lincoln grinning as he catches Octavia’s crooked smirk. 

“I really should go,” Lexa reiterates quietly, not wanting to interrupt. Her day will start early the following morning with a delivery just south of Boston, and traffic will be nauseating through Sumner Tunnel. “Are you sure you don’t—”

“Seriously, get her out of here,” Octavia interjects. “She overworks and stays late out of guilt and loyalty, and it’s entirely unnecessary.”

“Keep insisting, and I’m gonna say yes,” Clarke shoots back, almost threatening if not for her smile. 

“Good. Then you can stop badgering me about fucking tea lights.” Octavia flicks the side of Clarke’s head and smacks her ass as she passes by to clear more tables, and somehow Clarke is charmed by the violent affection. 

“I’ll stay and keep her company,” Lincoln offers. “You guys should take off. Enjoy the early night.” He then leans in closely to them both, his head bent in conspiracy. “And, I really do like those paper lanterns that you guys string up on the deck sometimes.” 

The way Clarke’s entire countenance glows, eyes sparkling in victorious mischief, has Lexa’s smile growing in kind. 

“I. Love you. You wonderful, wonderful human.” Clarke places her hands affectionately on either side of Lincoln’s face and looks as if she might actually plant a kiss between his eyebrows. “I will not let you down or betray your confidence.” Her tone is gravely solemn as if they are alluding to something far more serious than wedding decor. 

“Give me a second to gather my things from the office?” she then says to Lexa, her voice shifting to that delicate timbre that turns Lexa’s beating heart to a useless puddle. 

She tells her, “Take all the time you need.” 

“I’ll be quick.” Clarke reaches for her fingers, giving them a quick squeeze, and disappears into the back hallway. 

“Did I mention we did very well, ending up with these two?”

Lexa looks over to catch Lincoln’s giant grin and feels her own lips stretching into a smile. “I’m proud of us.” 

Lincoln very nearly giggles. “Me too.” 

A beat or two of amicable silence passes between them, in which time Octavia has returned behind the bar to tend to her few, straggling guests. 

“What are the chances Clarke already has a shitload of decorations she’s been stockpiling for this party?” Lincoln contemplates aloud. 

Lexa’s response comes without hesitation. 

“Oh yeah, without question.” 

::: 


End file.
